


Near to You

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Beta Victor, Bigotry & Prejudice, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Double Anal Penetration, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in One Hole, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fake Character Death, Gunshot Wounds, Hostage Situations, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kidnapped John, Kidnapping, Loss of Trust, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Mpreg, Multi, Omega John, Omega Verse, Other, Parentlock, Past Rape/Non-con, Permanent Injury, Psychological Trauma, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sensory Deprivation, Sex Toys, Sexual Content, Size Difference, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Trauma, Unplanned Pregnancy, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-03 07:39:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 58,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has no desire to do anything with his life, not after losing Mary, but Harry and Clara won't let him waste away. They introduce him to a resident at one of London's best hospitals, and John is inspired to return to his studies and make something of his ruined life.</p><p>A decade later, he is settling into the idea that he will be an unattached omega for the rest of his life. He doesn't mind, not really. He has a decent job and good friends. The only thing he really needs is a better flat, and maybe a little excitement outside the OR. He wasn't expecting more than that when he signed on to be an eccentric alpha's flatmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morfiantra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morfiantra/gifts).



> My usual caveat that this is rough and not very polished. Read or don't, your choice.
> 
> Next important thing, I don't plan on explicitly depicting any acts of rape, but there are some vivid mentions of and aftermaths.
> 
> I am planning to update once a week. Hopefully all goes well with that. Title is from the song by A Fine Frenzy.
> 
> This is most specially dedicated to Mary for being super amazing fabulous in general, but also a great omegaverse brainstorming buddy and wonderful sounding board for ideas.
> 
> I like omegaverse for a lot of reasons, but I also like exploring more than just the sex and mating bits. I like to look at what society would look like in an omegaverse world. What would be the taboo relationships, the marginalised minority, etc. I've really put an absurd amount of thought and research into my own omegaverse headcanons.
> 
> Last note I can think of: this story will take place over years. After the prologue, there's usually going to be at least a month or two worth of time lapse between chapters, if not more. If I had the time to sit down and write a novel series and slow down the pace, I would. Alas, that time is going into doing the same for my original fics.
> 
> If you decide to go ahead and read, well, hope you enjoy!

John had always had a preference for alpha women. They tended to have a better appreciation of foreplay, and, outside of his heats, John enjoyed bringing them slowly to arousal. He would imagine their commiseration when he would bear his first child over the frustration breasts could cause, or he would imagine the jokes they would share. He quite enjoyed an alpha’s woman’s breasts: to handle them during foreplay and intercourse; to nuzzle against them when he felt sleepy or playful; to picture them on his own body, swollen with pregnancy.

He was sure it would be Mary’s children he would bear, it would be her breasts he would rest against for all the years ahead of them, her hands and body that would caress and surround him during his heats. He was ready to marry her, to start a home and a family with her. He ached for it.

Then one bastard, one less-than-human being brought John’s world crumbling around him, leaving him half-buried in rubble. One sick individual too drunk to smell the alpha through the residue of John’s heat. She had gone out to get more condoms, and some idiot really thought she was an omega in heat wandering the streets by herself. How couldn’t he smell the alpha? How couldn’t he notice her sheath? That her labia held testes? That she wasn’t an omega in heat and he had no right—

“John?”

He stopped shaking and the memories slowly dissipated. Memories of her broken face, her broken body. Memories of how his fear and rage overpowered his heat. Memories of the hospital.

Harry sat on the edge of his bed and combed her fingers through his hair. “Clara and I are driving into London. You should join us. Do you good to get out a bit.”

John turned his face into his pillow.

“Please, John? For me?”

“Why should I do anything for you?” he muttered.

“Because I’m your big sister and I care about you.”

“Piss off.”

She left without further argument.

Half an hour later, John’s door opened again. He hated to admit how peaceful Clara’s presence was, especially alone, without Harry mucking it up. But a beta’s scent is never powerful, never overwhelming, and their personalities tended to match that. Of course, Clara was pushy in her own way.

“You need a haircut, Johnny.”

John shrugged against the mattress.

“And a shower. Come on, you should at least try to make a good impression.”

John rolled over and frowned up at Clara. “Who am I trying to impress exactly?”

“Friend of mine. Not like that; he’s married. Just someone I think you should meet.”

“Why?”

“If you meet him, you’ll know why. Now let’s go. Take a shower and I’ll give you a quick trim.” She ruffled his hair and smiled before leaving his room.

John dragged himself out of bed and down the hall to the loo. He knew Clara was manipulating him. She knew he couldn’t resist a bit of a mystery, if it was the right sort of mystery. What’s more, he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything more than annoyed about her manipulating him. Unlike his parents or Harry, who were a lot less suave about it and had been doing it for his entire life. Besides, Clara’s surprises were never cruel. They were benign at worst, and, on a few occasions, actually pleasant. So John showered and let Clara cut his hair and dressed in something other than threadbare vests and pyjama bottoms.

Harry dragged Clara and John to a few shops first, and a favourite café that was not at all to John’s liking for lunch. Clara shot him mildly apologetic smiles on more than one occasion. Their last stop wasn’t a shop or a café or anything of the sort. It was St. Bart’s Hospital.

Clara led them through the corridors to a lab where a few people were at work. She went over to one broad back hunched over a microscope and tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped before taking her in and grinning broadly. “Clara!” He hopped off his stool with surprising agility and Clara led him over to Harry and John.

“You’ve met Harry. This is her brother, John. John, this is an old friend of mine, Mike Stamford.”

“Pleasure to meet you. Here, let’s go somewhere less clinical.”

They ended up in an empty break room around a table with paper cups filled with cheap coffee. Away from the smells of chemicals and sterilities, John picked up the distinct fact that this man was an omega.

“Mike and I grew up together,” Clara told John.

“I had a horrible crush on Clara until puberty hit.” Mike chuckled. “Then I settled for being best mates with her.”

“Your mum was scandalised.”

“As was yours, if I remember correctly!”

“My mum’s always scandalised.” She abruptly turned the conversation. “John was studying medicine a couple years ago.”

“Oh? What field?” Mike looked at him with bright, sincere interest.

“Nursing,” John murmured. “Didn’t work out.”

“That’s alright. Lots of people underestimate how difficult nursing can be.”

“John’s plenty bright enough. Top of his classes.”

Harry nodded. “Two years my junior and gave me a run for my money in school. It was awful having a little brother who was smarter than me.” She winked at John.

“Not my fault you kept skipping,” John shot back.

“True. I never was the studious kind.”

Mike kept his attention on John. “I take it you didn’t finish your degree?”

John shook his head.

“Why not?”

Clara jumped to his rescue. “Life took a rough turn for John last year.”

“I see. Life’ll do that. I had to take a year and a half off when I was in school. Miscarriage halfway through my first pregnancy. I was a wreck. Never thought I’d do anything with my life after that. Yet here I am, two years away from becoming a full-fledged physician.”

John looked up. “You’re going to be a doctor?”

Mike nodded and his smile was warm. “Orthopaedic surgeon. I’m in the middle of my residency now.”

“That’s brilliant.”

“Ever think about going back to school?”

John’s shoulders fell. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I just… don’t think I could.”

“Well, if you think about changing your mind, I’ll be more than happy to impart whatever advice I might have.”

John gave him a weak smile and thanks. After a few awkward attempts on Harry and Clara’s parts to restart the conversation, they said their goodbyes and headed home.

 

A couple days after meeting Mike, John pulled out one of his boxes from the closet labelled UNI. He stacked his textbooks on his bed and sat in front of them. Maybe he could go back to school. He’d liked it, liked the idea of being in the medical field, of helping to heal people. Mary had always said he was a natural when it came to helping others, that it was part of his essence. She had said it would make him an amazing mum some day. John always wanted to ask when that day might be, but she would start to hum while tracing circles on his stomach, and coherent thought would drift from his mind.

He had been good. He had been at the top of his classes. It was challenging in the best ways. John looked at the calendar on his wall. If he was quick about it, he could still put in an application for autumn term.


	2. Chapter 2

It was summer, a month after he completed his residency, his thirtieth birthday, and John was the happiest he had felt in a long time. Of course, life was far from picturesque. He’d lost his father three years earlier, and six months ago Clara left Harry. John couldn’t blame her. Quite frankly, he felt worse for her than he did for his sister. He missed Clara dearly, though, and the handwritten letters she sent him in the post wasn’t near enough to make up for her absence or Harry’s continuing struggle with sobriety.

Still, he had his mates, and he had a career ahead of him. Mike said he would do whatever he could to get John the job he deserved. John insisted he’d done enough to get him where he was, but Mike waved his comments away and filled his pint.

He went home pleasantly buzzed and quite relaxed. He should have gone straight to bed with that good feeling. Instead, he noticed there was a message for him, and he made the mistake of checking it.

“It’s your mum. Happy Birthday, Johnny. I can’t wait to see you this weekend. I met the nicest you lady at the market today. Well, not too young of course. She’s just a little older than you. I’ve invited her to tea on Saturday. I think you’ll like-”

John deleted the message with a violent jab to the buttons and flopped onto his bed. John had accepted he was getting past the age where he’d be able to have children, outside of adoption. His mother, on the other hand, was in painful denial of the inevitable. John didn’t even know if he wanted children at this point. He hadn’t had a relationship lasting more than a few months in the past nine years. He wasn’t even sure he wanted something permanent anymore.

 

He dreamt of her, of the purpled handprints on her throat, the emptiness in her eyes when he said her name. The emptiness only ever gave way when he touched her. A hand on her arm would bring forth fear.

 

Mike called him a week later to tell John he could get him an interview with the head of surgery by the end of the month. John bought him lunch as thanks. He walked back with Mike to the hospital, more than a little hopeful he might be working there soon. 

“Alright? Too much coffee today?”

John gave a nervous chuckle. “No, I’m just trying to imagine—working at Bart’s. As my first job as a certified surgeon.”

“You could always go back to nursing.”

“After you and Clara held me at gunpoint to go into surgery?”

Mike shrugged. They turned the corner and came upon quite the scene. A tall young man was attempting to dodge into a room, the door to which was blocked by a much smaller woman.

“There’s nothing new!”

“Bollocks. The label on the third up, second in was clearly placed there within the last twenty-four hours.”

“That one’s off limits.”

“Why?”

“Police business, I don’t know.”

“Hah! I help those morons on a sickeningly regular basis. You know that. Let me have a look.”

“No.”

“Everything alright, you two?” Mike called as he and John neared.

“Dr. Stamford,” the woman sighed with relief. “Would you please tell him- Hey!” While she was addressing Mike, the man had slipped behind her and into the room. “Sherlock!”

Mike hurried after her into the room and John followed.

“Just a peak.”

“No.” The woman had a hand flat against one of several cold chambers.

Mike put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Take it easy, Sherlock. Molly’s just doing her job.”

Sherlock scowled and shrugged Mike’s hand away, but he backed off.

“Thank you,” Molly said to both of them. “Who’s this?”

John unexpectedly found himself the centre of attention. What was most unnerving were the pair of silver eyes alighting on him from under a mop of dark curls. It was more than a predatory gaze; John felt like he was being split open like a book and read.

“John Watson. I’ve told you about him. He’ll be getting a job here soon.”

“Might be.” John offered his hand to Molly. “Nice to meet you.”

Sherlock finally looked past John. “Mike, can I borrow your phone?”

“There’s one on the wall.”

“I prefer to text.”

“You’re not texting with mine. Besides, it’s in my office.”

Without thinking much about it, John pulled his mobile from his pocket and passed it to Sherlock. “I don’t mind.”

“Ta.” As he typed rapidly on John’s phone, he said, “Looking for a new flat, John?”

“What makes you ask?”

“Recently completed your residency, starting a new job that will allow for more than the closet you’re probably living in as a medical resident in London.”

John crossed his arms slowly. “Haven’t gotten the job yet.”

“No, but you will.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Sherlock handed the phone back to John. “It’s not a matter of surety. Molly, I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“That won’t change anything,” she snapped.

He smirked and made for the door. “I’d wait in your office if I were you.”

“For what?”

“Phone call.”

Molly stood silently fuming for a moment before making her own hasty exit.

“Uhm.”

Mike laughed and clapped him on the back. “That’s Sherlock for you.”

“Sherlock who? Who is he?”

“Sherlock Holmes. Brilliant young man. Genius, really.”

“Student?”

“God, no. He, hm, consults with the police on occasion.”

“Specialist? He seems young.”

“Not technically speaking. Oh, don’t get me wrong, his knowledge is very specialised. Only, there’s no job for his kind of specialisation.”

“Which is?”

“Just about everything. He can read a grass stain as well as he can read people, and he’s more likely to spend time with the grass stain.”

“How do you read a grass stain?”

“Bugger if I know.”

On the tube ride home, John turned on his mobile. The message Sherlock had sent was still there, but all it contained was the hospital name and a string of numbers, signed with his initials.

 

John didn’t get the full-time job he had hoped for. What he got was a job filling in the scheduling gaps, taking up the slack when the hospital was short-staffed. His schedule was erratic. Some weeks he would spend eighty hours or more in the hospital; others, he wouldn’t even manage ten. He was told he might get an offer for a full-time position within the year, but they couldn’t make promises. It was still a job, and a decently paying one if he was careful with his earnings. He kept applying elsewhere, but, in the end, Bart’s was where he stayed.

Three months after he started work, he was confronted with his biggest fear about going into the field of trauma surgery: treating a rape victim. An alpha woman. His mind hazed over for half a second, at most, before his training kicked into gear. Everything became procedural; his hands moved according to muscle memory as much as conscious thought. He melted into the single unit of the surgical team.

The woman was bleeding profusely from her mouth. After removing a wad of cloth, they found her tongue had been cut out. That was their first priority. They hooked up an IV and began anesthetising through it. They went to work closing up the stump that remained of her tongue. Next were her hands, which had been severely crushed and were now dangerously swollen. Five hours later, they wheeled her out of the OR.

John had two more surgeries before his shift was up and his head had a chance to settle. Before he left for the night—or morning, as it was most definitely closer to dawn—he went by the rape victim’s room. He stood outside of the room, away from the door’s narrow window, and flipped through her file. She was an alpha, as he thought. It was hard to tell sometimes amidst the chaos of surgery, the blood and chemicals and other, sweating bodies in the room, but he thought he had smelled the alpha. He swallowed hard and put the file back.

“You!”

John jumped and whirled to see two men approach him. One was in a police uniform. The other was in civvies, but carried himself like the law.

“What are you doing?” the uniformed officer snapped.

“I’m a doctor,” John said, quickly pulling out his badge. “I was part of the surgery team. I wanted to check on her prognosis.”

The plains clothes cop gestured for the other to stand down. “You did good work.”

“Wish I hadn’t needed to.”

“Yeah, we’ve got a brutal one out there. Third like it this week. God knows what’s going through this sick bastard’s head.”

John frowned and glanced at the door. “You’re talking about what they do. Not the rape itself, but the rest?”

“Yeah.”

“Shakespeare.”

“Excuse me?”

“The other two before her, they had their tongues cut out and their hands crushed?”

The officer gave a slow nod.

“He’s getting it from Shakespeare. Rape of Lucrece, Titus Andronicus.”

“He’s not wrong, Lestrade.”

The cop turned and revealed a tall figure in a long dark coat with his hands clasped behind his back, carrying himself with much more grandeur than the last time John had seen him. “You know Shakespeare?” the plain clothes officer said with no small amount of incredulity.

“Why shouldn’t I, Detective Inspector?”

“You don’t know who’s Prime Minister.”

“Is the Prime Minister going to provide a source of inspiration for your next interesting case?” He swept past the detective and plucked up the woman’s file.

John snatched it from his hands, much to everyone’s surprise. “You don’t have a right to invade this woman’s privacy.”

“I suspected you were the hero type.” Sherlock smiled briefly before turning to the detective.

Lestrade gave a reluctant nod. “It’s alright, doctor. He’s helping us on the case.”

“Yes, finally.” Sherlock scowled and held his gloved hand out for the folder.

John passed it to him regretfully. He walked over to the inspector. “The other cases, if you don’t mind my asking, were they also alphas?”

“All alpha women. Someone has a grudge. We’ve seen it before, without the extra flourishes this guy has. Some ignorant bastard who thinks just because his dick’s on the outside twenty-four seven means he gets to fuck anything with a cunt.” The detective ran a hand through hair. “Sorry, that wasn’t very professional of me.”

“I don’t blame you. But Detective—I don’t mean to step on your toes here—but I wouldn’t be so sure the rapist has a penis.”

The DI stared at John. “What are talking about?”

“Well, if the kits came back the same as the other two, there’s nothing. Not even stray hairs.”

“Plenty of rapists use condoms.”

“Yeah, and most condoms have lubricant. There aren’t any traces of lubricant. There’s very little damage to the vagina itself, in this case at least. Were the others the same?” When the DI gave a slow nod, John continued, “Even an omega man’s penis would most likely have caused more damage than is present. I think they were penetrated with an object, meaning your rapist could just as easily be a beta or omega woman.”

While the DI soaked in John’s words, Sherlock walked over to them, the file no longer in his hands. He narrowed his gaze on John. “Seen many rape victims in your three months as a part-time trauma surgeon?”

John went momentarily rigid before he answered quietly, “No. My alpha—years ago—she was raped.”

“I see.”

The DI held out his hand. “Thank you, Doctor…”

“Watson. John’s fine, though.” He took the hand.

“Greg Lestrade. Thank you for your help. Have a good night.”

John nodded and watched them walk away. Eventually, he snapped back to the present and made his own way out.

 

A few days after treating the rape victim, there was a knock at John’s door. He was shocked to find Sherlock Holmes on the other side of the threshold.

“Veritable closet,” Sherlock muttered, scanning the flat beyond John. “John Watson.”

“Sherlock Holmes? Sorry, what are you doing here? How do you even know where I live?”

“I have friends in the Yard. Well, I say friends… I need a flatmate.”

“And so you’ve stalked down a complete stranger?”

“Stranger? Not at all. We’ve met.”

“Twice.”

“And I needed but one to know you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Dr. John Watson, an exceptional surgeon, poor relations with your brother—alcoholic and divorced—though he worries about you, a bachelor by force of will rather than any inability to find a mate-”

“Stop. Wait. You looked me up?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then how-”

“The surgeon bit was quite simple, seeing as you were a friend of Mike Stamford’s and looking for employment at the hospital. That you were exceptional was evident by your hands-”

“My hands?”

“Every minute motion is precise, even those without conscious thought. That comes with years of ingraining skills into one’s self, not simple study and practice. As for your brother, your phone gave me that information.”

“Huh?”

“Scratched up but not a very old model. You are anything but clumsy, yet your phone has clearly been handled by someone who either has a severe case of muscular dystrophy or is often inebriated. The inscription on the back—To Harry, Love Clara. He didn’t want the phone, but he wanted to keep in touch with you. Too new a model to be your father’s, so it must have been a brother’s. As for your bachelor lifestyle, a perfectly healthy omega without a partner at thirty. Even before you mentioned your late alpha, it was obvious. You carry yourself like you’re trying to justify your very existence to the world. Why? Plenty of omegas have industrious careers in this day and age, at least in this corner of the world. No need to defend that. Then why else, except to say adamantly declare you are a single omega not looking for an alpha. Perfectly respectable, of course, though the greater consensus may not lean that way.”

John gaped for what could have been an hour. “And you say you didn’t look me up?”

“Not once, except to find your address of course.”

“Brilliant.”

Sherlock’s brow quirked. “Excuse me?”

“That was brilliant.”

“Well. That’s definitely a new reaction.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most people don’t like when I lay out their life stories. The typical reaction is ‘piss off’ or ‘bastard.’ I don’t believe anyone has ever said it was brilliant.”

“It was, though. How did you do that?”

“I observe what others refuse to. Now, unless you have an aversion to the violin, I insist you move in with me.”

John stepped back from his amazement and suspicion resurfaced. “Why?”

“My landlady keeps threatening to rent out the second bedroom in my flat, and I would much rather have a say in who I share my living quarters with.”

“Why me?”

“You were right.”

“What?”

Sherlock smiled. “About the rapist. Well, not right. However, your observations did lend to finding the rapist.”

“They got them?”

“Yes. It was a man, an alpha at that, but one with an untreatable erectile dysfunction and a history of being severely ostracised since adolescence. He had a Shakespeare anthology in his home, in which he had bookmarked Lucrece and Titus Andronicus, as well as a few passages from other works referencing similar stories and acts. I must say, it’s quite an impressive success for your first bit of detective work. So, will you move in with me?”

John shook his head to clear it. “I don’t know you. You may be able to figure out my life story with a single look, but I can’t do the same. To be perfectly blunt, I don’t fancy sharing living space with a stranger, especially an unattached alpha.”

Sherlock frowned. “I see.”

“I’ve heard too many horror stories. I’m sorry.”

“I suppose that’s fair. Dinner, then.”

John balked. “What?”

“Not as a date. None of that nonsense. ‘Unattached’ is actually quite an accurate description. I have no interesting in courting—never mind. What I mean to say is, if you insist on getting to know me before moving in, that’s acceptable. So, grab your coat.”

“I just said I wasn’t going to move in with you.”

“Because I’m a stranger to you, an obstacle I plan to overcome by buying you dinner and giving you the chance to ask me questions about myself or whatever nonsense will make you feel comfortable enough to move in.”

John massaged his forehead with his fingertips. “Why are you so intent on getting me to move in with you?”

Sherlock gave a longsuffering sigh. “I told you, because you were right.”

“And then you said I wasn’t.”

“Close enough.”

John held up his hand. “No, it doesn’t matter. It’s still an absurd reason to try and bribe someone into moving in with you.”

“I wasn’t aware this was a bribe. You can pay for your own meal then.”

John stared at him. “Are you usually this belligerent?”

“I imagine some would say worse.” Sherlock grinned. “So, dinner?”

John paused, as much to reconcile that he was actually about to accept the offer as to brace himself for actually going along with this madman. “For the record,” he said as he pulled his jacket from behind the door, “Harry’s short for Harriet."


	3. Chapter 3

It was three days before Christmas, and John was glad he had decided to wait an extra night before going to his mum’s. Most people who visited 221B Baker Street were prospective clients, and John had begun getting used to the variety of people who came through the flat. This time, however, the visitor was for him.

“Clara!”

“Hiya, Johnny.” She hugged him tight before walking inside. “So, new place. It’s nice.”

“Yeah, my bedroom is entirely separate from everything else.” He smiled and motioned to the sofa. “What are you doing here? Not that I’m not glad to see you.”

“Staying with some friends for the holidays. Wanted to check in on you.”

“You really didn’t have to.”

“But I really wanted to. I miss you. I’m glad you’re doing well, though. You are, aren’t you?”

John nodded. “Job, a place to live that actually has rooms—plural. Yeah, I’m doing pretty well. How about you?”

“Getting by. It’s hard. You spend ten years with someone, you form patterns. Little things. But it’s getting a little better, bit by bit.”

“Good. You deserve-”

Clara put a finger to his lips. “I will not let you speak ill of your own sister, not on my account.”

John smiled. “You’re too good a person, Clara.”

“Oh, I know I am. So, tell me about your flatmate.” Clara’s brow creased. “Are you really living under the same roof as an unattached alpha?”

“I am. I know, I had the same misgivings. I’m still not completely on board with this. There’s no way to be sure until after January, though.”

“Next one?”

John nodded. “I’m down to two a year, now. It’s kind of a relief, to be honest.”

Clara squeezed his shoulder. “Be safe, Johnny. You have people who’ll look after you if something happens, even if you’re afraid something might happen.”

“I know.” John covered her hand with his. “Thanks. Honestly, Sherlock’s less interested in romance than I am, and I don’t think he’s got my cynical world view to back it up. He simply doesn’t seem to care about any of it.”

“If you say so.”

They chatted for a few more minutes, but it didn’t take them long to run out of topics that weren’t Harry, so Clara kissed John’s cheek and wished him a Happy Christmas and was on her way.

 

John managed to escape back to London the day after Boxing Day. He had a job, after all, and was going to have to take time off soon. He needed to get hours in while he could. It was enough to get his mum and Harry to stop guilting him into staying longer, and he took off.

He was surprised to find Sherlock back in London already. “Good Christmas?”

Sherlock merely grunted and glared into his microscope at the kitchen table.

John went upstairs and unpacked his suitcase. Then he unpacked an entirely different box. He piled the spare extra absorbent sheets next to the bed, deposited his toys in the top drawer of his nightstand. He removed his usual bedding and stuffed it in the now empty box. He covered the mattress with the fitted plastic cover and then layered on the first of the three sets of thick sheets.

He called into work to notify them before going downstairs. “Sherlock?”

“Hm.”

“This is one of those times I need to know you’re actually listening to me.”

Sherlock looked up from the microscope.

“In the spirit of full disclosure, I’m due for my heat within the next month.”

“I see. Is there anything-”

“No. Letting you know, that’s all. Actually, there is one thing.”

“Yes?”

“I’m going to stock up before it hits. Try not to spoil the milk that week.” John gave him a brief smile. “Going out in public during heat is dreadful in more ways than you can imagine.”

Sherlock nodded. “No using the milk for cultures, understood.”

John shook his head, but he grinned all the same.

 

It started a few days after New Years. He made a last, quick trip to Tesco before hunkering down for the week. He figured he had until morning before his heat was in full force, so he settled a long, medium-sized plug inside himself and curled up with a book. No chance of sleeping with his skin crawling like it was.

By dawn, though, the book was discarded and John had moved up dramatically with the size of his toys. He brought himself to his second orgasm with the morning sun streaming through his window.

The fading climax gave way to a little added clarity, and he took the opportunity to plug himself, toss on an old tee and track bottoms, and made a quick trip downstairs. He went to the loo first, and then the kitchen to make something. In a couple days, he’d be lucky if he could find the food without slamming around, let alone use the hob to cook. He wanted to cook while he still had the cognitive function to do so.

He took as long as he could with breakfast, stretching out the affair as much as possible. When he was back upstairs, he couldn’t get out of his clothes quickly enough. He immediately curled up on his bed again and replaced the plug with a dildo. The build-up of lubricant from the plug’s extended stay left everything feeling wetter than it had before. His third orgasm wasn’t far off, and it was less of a relief than it was a taunt of what was still ahead.

He didn’t come across Sherlock once during his ventures downstairs, which were growing shorter and further between. He was only distantly aware of this lack of contact, but also grateful for it in the semi-lucid moments between orgasms. At the end of the third day, he was finally reduced to putting in his largest vibrating dildo. He kept it slid halfway out during the ebbs, and he shoved it past the silicone knot and flipped it on during the flows until he came, crying quietly into his pillow.

 

Once John could spend several hours without something shoved up his arse for relief, he began cleaning up. He started with his toys early in the morning, taking them into the bathroom and cleaning them methodically before drying them and placing them one by one into their box. He went next to the two sets of oversaturated sheets. Unfortunately, he only had enough space in his room to hang one at a time to dry.

He was next. He climbed into the shower and washed himself fully for the first time in four days. Hot water and soap dispelled dried lubrication on his thighs, greasy hair gave way to shampoo, and sweat trickled away. It wasn’t the cleanest he’d get; he’d have another shower that night, a couple more the next day. It was, however, the most relief he had felt in six days.

He dressed in clean clothes. His skin still itched, but at least he didn’t feel like he was going to suffocate under a single layer of cotton. He made himself breakfast and a proper cuppa and was able to take the time to enjoy them.

When John came down again for lunch, he found Sherlock hunched over his microscope per usual. “Hi.”

Sherlock looked up, making quite the show of acting like he hadn’t noticed John walking into the room. John didn’t comment.

“The milk is back in play.”

“Then you’re feeling… better?”

John grinned. “Yeah, thanks.” He gathered a few things that were more snack than real food, not quite feeling up to making two meals in one day. He sat across from Sherlock, clearing a bit of space for a plate. “You’ve never been around an omega in heat before, have you?”

“Not one that wasn’t family, no.”

“Then bravo, and thanks.”

“What for?”

“For not being a pushy jackass about it. I’ve had to smack down more than one alpha during my heats, some of them I was even dating at the time.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I’m hardly one to succumb to such base drives.”

“Mm. That why you hid for the past week?” John smiled and bit into a biscuit.

Sherlock refused to answer with anything but a derisive snort and dove back into whatever it was he was studying in his microscope. 

 

John had two more weeks off, and he planned to relax as much as possible during that time. He wasn’t going to get that relaxation, though. Two days after the last edginess of his heat dissolved, the last sheet drying in his room, the door to the flat burst open to admit a flushed and excited Sherlock.

“You’re a doctor!”

“Uhm, yeah?”

“Yes, excellent. Grab your jacket.”

“Are you alright?”

“Fine. Wonderful. It’s brilliant.”

“What is?”

“The case!”

“What case?”

“I’ll explain on the way.” He removed John’s jacket from the coat stand and tossed it to John. “Quickly, now!”

John put on his shoes and jacket and followed Sherlock down to the pavement. “You need my help on a case?”

“Possibly.” Sherlock hailed a cab. Once they were on their way, he began to explain, “Beta woman, made to look like a suicide.” He took out his mobile and handed it to John. “This is how the scene was found. What’s wrong with the picture?”

John looked at the photo on the phone. “You mean aside from the dead woman?”

“What’s out of place?” Sherlock pressed.

So John took a closer look. It seemed to be a small lounge, with a sofa and television in the background. He started to shake his head. “Wait. The chair?”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed. “What about the chair?”

“It’s knocked forward. If she was standing on it and kicked it out from under herself, it probably would have gone back or to the side. The back of the chair would have been in the way if she tried kicking it out in front of her.”

“Exactly! I knew you weren’t as idiotic as those fools at the Yard.”

“Thanks, I think. That’s still a stretch, assuming murder because of how a chair fell.”

“It wasn’t what pointed us in that direction, not initially. When the police went through her background information, they found no history of depression.”

“Plenty of people suffer depression without it being documented.”

“I suppose they would, wouldn’t they? There’s more. She was in the process of adopting. She had been approved last week and was getting ready to make a final decision on a child.”

John nodded thoughtfully. “So why take your own life when you’re about to add one to your household.”

“Precisely. No partner, documented or according to any of her acquaintances. A single woman about to become a single mother after a lot of planning, paperwork, and hoop-jumping.”

“Yeah, they don’t exactly make it easy for betas.” John grimaced.

“Here we are.”

Here was St. Bart’s. Sherlock led John straight to the same morgue where they had first met. Molly was there working on a body. Their body, apparently.

“You’ve started the autopsy?” Sherlock snapped.

“Er, yes.” Molly shifted uneasily. “It’s my job, y’know.”

“The neck appears intact. John, tell me what you see.” Sherlock indicated the bruised neck of the woman.

John gave Molly an uncertain look. He’d gotten to know her a bit since he started working at St. Bart’s, and he felt bad intruding on her work like this.

She shrugged and stepped back. John had heard some of her stories about Sherlock’s intrusive behaviour, so he knew this wasn’t a first for her.

John mouthed a silent thanks before approaching the body. “Bruised, as expected.” He examined the face. “Definite signs of strangulation.”

“But not from the rope!” Sherlock sounded, and looked, beside himself with glee. It was unnerving.

“The rope marks are pretty clear, Sherlock.” He looked at Molly. “Were they posthumous?”

Molly shook her head. “No, the bruising definitely happened when she was alive.”

Sherlock huffed. “You’re not looking!”

“I’m looking pretty closely.”

“Observe, then.”

John suppressed a scowl and gave the neck another look. This time, he looked at the sides as well. “Are those… Handprints?”

“Yes, yes! You see it now?”

“Someone strangled her with their hands first?” John looked up and an unexpected wave of vertigo spread through him.

“You alright?” Molly said, settling a hand on his shoulder.

“Fine. I need—I’ll be right back.” He hurried past Sherlock, not quite hearing him call his name, and pushed through the morgue doors. He didn’t stop walking until he was outside and the cold air hit his lungs with needles.

He remembered her bruises, the bruises that had already turned yellow before-

“John?”

He jerked away from the hand on his arm. “Sorry. I’m fine.”

“Unconvincing. Your hands are shaking.”

John raised his hands to eye-level. A surgeon with shaky hands. He clenched them and stuffed them into his jacket. “I’ll be fine.”

“I did not anticipate… Do you want to talk?”

“No. I’m going to go home. Good luck with the case.” He began walking away at a brisk pace, and Sherlock didn’t try to stop him or call him back.

 

Her neck was yellow. There were other yellow marks on her body, but her neck was the most startling shade. Under the still water, the shape of the man’s hands were distinct, amplified. They screamed in the silence of the bathroom.

 

John woke with a start at a heavy knocking from downstairs. He ran his hands through his hair and tossed on his rumpled jumper before jogging down to the door. He opened it to find an alpha man in a three-piece suit carrying a briefcase and black umbrella. He looked down a hooked nose at John.

“Sherlock’s not in. I don’t think.”

“I’m not a client.”

“Oh.”

“I’m actually hear to speak with you, Dr. Watson.”

John frowned. “And you are…?”

“An acquaintance of Sherlock’s.”

“Right. And you want to speak to me?”

The man nodded.

“Come in then, I guess. Tea?”

“No, thank you. I can’t stay long.” The man strode across the room and sat in Sherlock’s chair, looking quite at ease in the room, if fashionably out of place. John closed the door and sat in his chair across from Sherlock’s.

“How do you know Sherlock, then?”

“That’s unimportant. As I said, I’m here to talk to you.”

“Of course.”

“How are you finding your new living arrangements? Sherlock isn’t very easy to get along with.”

John shrugged. “Fine. We’re getting into a pattern.”

“Not a very good lie, Doctor. Patterns don’t exist in Sherlock’s life. He finds them unbearably dull.”

“Alright, I’m getting into a pattern. What’s this all about anyway?”

“Tell me, have you been in heat since you moved in with Sherlock?”

John jumped to his feet. “I think you need to leave.”

“That’s a yes, then. And how did he handle it?”

“Leave, or I’m calling-”

“The police? I have the direct line to the chief inspector, if you’d like it.”

“I don’t know who you are, but get out.”

The man smiled at John. It wasn’t a comforting look. “I can see why he likes you.”

“That’s it.” John turned, ready to bolt up the stairs when the door slammed open.

A slightly dishevelled looking Sherlock flew into the room, pointing menacingly at the man in his chair. “Get out.”

The man toyed with the umbrella in his lap. “I’m surprised you made it here in such a timely fashion. You usually ignore my messages for days.”

“I don’t know what scheme you’re up to now, Mycroft, but get out.”

“Or what, you’ll throw me out? Call Mummy?”

John’s brain snapped back to functionality at the word. “‘Mummy’?”

“Our mother,” Sherlock seethed.

“Your—He’s your brother?” John gaped at Sherlock.

“Regretfully so. Mycroft, out.”

Mycroft sighed and finally vacated the chair. “I’m going to be late for a meeting anyway. Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson.”

John crossed his arms. “The feeling’s not mutual.” He could hear Mycroft chuckle before Sherlock slammed the door behind him.

Sherlock turned at once on John. “Are you alright? What did he say?”

“I’m fine. Nothing. He was being nosy and creepily inquisitive.” John shook his head. “Your brother?”

“Most lamentably. He didn’t hurt you, though? I don’t mean physically. He’s too bloody fat to raise a hand against someone.”

John grinned. The man hadn’t been overweight at all, and seeing Sherlock act a little more human, even if it was to spite a family member, was amusing. “No, no mental scarring. I’m really alright, Sherlock. I appreciate your concern, though.”

“If you insist. I’m ordering you curry, though. I’ve rather mucked up your day.”

“None of it was your fault.”

“Maybe not my sorry excuse for a brother, but what happened at the morgue most certainly was.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I knew enough.”

John shrugged. “I deal with these things all the time. Trauma surgeon, remember?”

“Then why did this one trigger you?”

“I’m not sure.” John went back to his chair and slumped into it. “I’ve seen a lot. Not everything, not by a long shot, but a lot.”

“In the OR.”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock sat down in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. “Where you had the ability to save them, or at least try and save them.”

John looked up. “Not all of them.”

“Then why-”

“Can we not talk about this?”

Sherlock frowned, but relented. “Of course.” He shrugged out of his coat and retrieved his violin.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock dragged John along to more than one case after that day, though none of them involved strangulation or falsified suicide. John didn’t mind, and he even began to enjoy the escapades. They were interesting, if morbidly so, and watching Sherlock work was incredible. Sherlock would always ask John’s opinion about something medical, though John could never be sure if he actually needed a second opinion, or was doing it for John’s benefit. He came to realise he didn’t care all that much.

In late April, John happened upon an argument in the lounge between Sherlock and Lestrade, who John had since learned was the DI who most readily called on Sherlock for his help. John had only come home a few hours ago, after a twelve-hour shift, and had been planning to sleep past noon. No such luck.

“I’ve made it clear to you, Lestrade. I refuse to bring John onto one of these cases.”

“I’m not asking you to bring your boyfriend, Sherlock.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Whatever. I’m asking for your help, not his.”

“And I need his help.”

“Like hell you do. Even if you did need a medical opinion, we have an entire forensics team who are more than-”

“I will laugh if you use the word ‘competent’ to describe any of those idiots.”

“Capable.”

“The answer is no.”

“People are dying, Sherlock.”

“Then you had better do something about that, Detective Inspector.”

John was still standing on the bottom step when the DI stormed out of the flat. He stopped short when he saw John. “You’ve got a real special one there, mate.” Lestrade shook his head and continued on his way.

John walked from the landing into the flat. Sherlock was at the window with his hands clasped behind his back. “What was that about?”

“Nothing important.”

“Sounded like he could really use your help.”

“His terms are unacceptable.”

“Sherlock.” John said his name pointedly, and his genius flatmate reluctantly faced him. “You don’t need me for a case. Whatever it is, you’ll handle it. I’m sure you were great before I came along.”

Sherlock scowled and looked back out the window.

John decided he might as well eat something since he was up. As he busied himself in the kitchen, Sherlock slunk in and sat at his microscope. John pulled down a second mug and dropped a teabag in. “What’s the case anyway?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not taking it.”

“Serial murderer?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you liked serial murderers.”

“This one doesn’t interest me.”

John set Sherlock’s cup next to his hand. “I heard the argument. What is it? Strangulation?”

Sherlock pointedly ignored both John and the tea.

“Do they know what was used?” John noticed the slight twitch in Sherlock’s mouth. “They don’t, do they? You are interested. Sherlock, take the bloody case. You don’t need me.”

“I’m not interested. Even if I were, it’s a moot point.”

“And you say I’m a bad liar.” John turned the microscope away from Sherlock. “Take the case or I’ll chuck the cultures you’ve been growing for the past week.”

“What cultures?”

“The ones next to the head. Those aren’t cultures you’re using?”

“Oh, those? No, I finished that experiment days ago.”

John released a frustrated groan. “Right. I’ll- I’ll-”

Sherlock smirked as John struggled to find a suitable threat.

“I’ll stop buying those chocolate biscuits you knick when you don’t think I’m looking.”

“As far as threats go, that is beyond pitiful.”

“Oh, is it?”

“I am perfectly capable of buying my own biscuits.”

John crossed his arms. “What brand are they?”

Sherlock shifted on his stool.

John held up a finger. “You eat, but you do not observe.” He pointed to the door. “Case. Now.”

With an wordless grumble, Sherlock abandoned his stool and trudged out the door.

 

John had decided to go for a walk after taking a nap. It was an unseasonably warm day for April, and he was going to enjoy it. He was waiting to cross over to Regent’s. He remembered someone bumping into him, and a cab stopping on the crossing, and not much else. His head had gone fuzzy by then.

As he came to, he tried to rub his brow and found his arms immobilised. Panic set in fast and hard.

“Yes, that’s right,” a voice cooed. “Time to wake up, my good doctor.”

John blinked away the last blurredness. A narrow man in a black suit stood before him, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets. Behind him, in plain view, was the door. The room was small and spartan, mostly concrete, but well light by commercial grade fluorescents. John could see nothing but the door and the man and the chair he was tied to. There was an overwhelming reek of alpha. Not just one, either. It was as if the room had been pumped with the pheromones from a dozen different alphas. It was more than enough to keep his heart rate rapid and erratic, adrenaline flooding his system, and head from clearing completely.

“Hello, Johnny boy.”

“Who… Who are you?”

“An interested party. Not in you, of course. Don’t be silly. You’re nothing special. Goodness knows what he sees in you.”

“Sherlock,” John breathed before he could stop himself.

“I do hope he gets my message soon. I would hate to keep, well, me waiting.” A text chime went off. John’s text chime. The stranger pulled John’s phone from his coat. “How timely he can be.” He pointed the phone at John and snapped a picture. “Do you think he’ll figure it out?”

“What do you want from him?”

“To meet him, of course. To experience his genius firsthand. Now, be good and don’t ruin the surprise.”

John yelped as a pair of hands appeared in his peripheral vision. Soon, though, he was gagged and blindfolded, and plugs were pushed into his ears. He neither saw nor heard anything more of this second agent.

 

Panic kept rising and draining away intermittently. More than once he choked out a sob against the gag. The alpha pheromones were doing most of the work on his psyche, and part of him knew it. Part of him would occasionally push back the fear and make himself sit still and quiet. That part would eventually break down and he would shake, afraid of what was next, afraid of what this man was going to do to Sherlock if he was doing all this to John when John didn’t even factor into his motives. The stronger, more logical part of him would eventually gain another foothold, and again lose it.

The cycle was broken when he felt the room tremble around him. He had no idea how much time passed between then and the moment a pair of hands brushed against his and his wrists were freed. The blindfold and gag were removed and he could see—see Sherlock, bent over him, soaking wet and bleeding. He saw his mouth moving.

John pulled the plugs from his ears and leapt shakily to his feet. “God, Sherlock. You’re hurt.”

“But alive. We need to get out of here.”

Together they limped out of a basement. John wasn’t prepared for the heat that slammed into him above ground. Whatever the place was, it was ablaze. Sherlock grabbed his arm and dragged him over rubble and outside.

After however long his senses had been muted, the sirens were overwhelming. He crouched down on the pavement, shut his eyes, and covered his ears.

“John. You can’t stay here. The fire’s too close. John!” Sherlock pulled him roughly out of his folded position. He didn’t let go of John’s wrist as he dragged him away from the heat. “Cut the sirens.”

“What?”

“He was sensory deprived for hours. Cut the bloody sirens, Lestrade.” A moment later, the sirens went dead. Sherlock let go of John and placed his hands on his temples instead. “John, look at me. I need you to look at me.”

John slowly opened his eyes and lowered his hands. Everything was still so loud. “You’re hurt.”

“I’ll live. I need to know what he did to you. Did he drug you?”

“I… I don’t know. Yes, I think so. I blacked out, by the park.” He focused on Sherlock’s voice, his hands against his head, his bright silver eyes boring into him. He grounded himself there.

“Did he hurt you, outside of tying you up and blocking your senses?”

“No.”

“He didn’t-” Sherlock sucked in sharply. “John, did he rape you?”

John shook his head. “No. He didn’t touch me. He left me there, that’s all he did.”

Sherlock let out a long, relieved breath. “Good. That’s good.” He seemed suddenly unstable, and his hands slipped from John’s face.

“Sherlock!” John reached out and managed to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s torso before the man crashed into the ground. “Help! We need help!”

A pair of EMTs showed up and took Sherlock from John. He was ready to follow them into the nearest ambulance, but someone blocked his path. “Sir, we need to check you out.”

“My friend-”

“He’ll be looked after, sir.”

John followed his own paramedic to the back of an ambulance where his vitals were checked and a slew of questions were asked.

“You’re severely dehydrated, sir. I recommend you go on some IV fluids.”

“Fine, fine. Sherlock, is he-”

“They left for the hospital a few minutes ago. You’ll be able to see him after they treat him.”

“Treat him? Treat him for what?”

“I can’t say. He looked like he had caught part of the explosion.”

“Explosion?” John looked blankly back at the building. The fire was still going, but it shrinking steadily. “Of course. Fluids, right.”

“Sir, did you experience any head trauma recently?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Alright. Why don’t you lay down, and we’ll be on our way.”

John complied. He was stuck with an IV and strapped to the gurney, and a minute later the ambulance rolled away from the scene.

 

John was given a box of muscle relaxers, which he pocketed. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the exam bed while his physician went over the final notes and recommendations for his recuperation. He had spent far too long in the room, speaking to a nurse, a psychiatrist, and now this doctor. He needed to find Sherlock. He needed to make sure he was safe.

At last, he was released, and he made a beeline for the nearest nurse. “I’m looking for my friend. Sherlock Holmes? He came in an ambulance. There was an explosion.”

“Explosion victim, right. I think they still have him in surgery. I’m sorry.”

John’s stomach sank. He thanked her and barely kept himself from running through the corridors. He confirmed Sherlock was in surgery, and he would have to wait for any information beyond that as he was not family.

He had been in the waiting room for over an hour when someone tapped him on his shoulder and a cup of coffee was put in front of him.

“Detective-”

“Greg. My name’s Greg.” The DI sat next to John, a cup in his own hand. “Any word?”

“No. They won’t tell me anything because I’m not family.”

“Ruddy bastards.”

“What happened?”

Greg grimaced. “What do you know?”

“Nothing. I was drugged and kidnapped and tied up in some basement closet by some lunatic and his mate-”

“His mate? Moriarty wasn’t acting alone?”

“Who?”

“James Moriarty, the man who kidnapped you. He wasn’t alone?”

“No. There was someone else there. I didn’t see him. He was the one who blindfolded me.”

“Sorry, John. I need to let them know.”

John nodded as Greg jumped out of his seat and paced down the hall. John sipped at his stale coffee.

“John Watson?” A woman in scrubs looked around the waiting room for a response. When she saw John’s, she walked over. “Your friend’s asking for you.”

“He’s alright?” John set the coffee down on the nearest end table and followed the doctor.

“Not the word I’d use, but he’ll recover. You’re a doctor?”

John nodded.

“He was concussed and has three fractured ribs and a broken radius. He got out lucky. From what I was told, the explosion could have caused a lot more damage to him than it did. Unfortunately, healing is going to be a painful process. He’s not in severe enough condition for us to prescribe narcotics, not with his history.”

“History?”

“Oh. I’m sorry, I assumed you would know.”

“He has a history of drug use?”

“Yes, and I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say anything more. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything at all.”

“It’s fine.”

She left him outside Sherlock’s room. He knocked and went in. 

Sherlock sat up in the hospital bed as soon as he saw John, wincing at the pain the abrupt move caused him.

“Hi.” John closed the door and walked over to the chair beside Sherlock’s bed. “Is it alright if I-”

“Of course it is. Don’t be an idiot, John.” He settled back against his reclined position. “I see you faired physically better than myself.”

“I wasn’t in the middle of an explosion. Apparently you were?”

“More or less.”

“So, who’s Moriarty?”

“A genius, like myself. Only he puts his abilities to a different use.”

“Kidnapping and exploding people, yeah.”

“The explosion was partly my fault. I called his bluff.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Kidnapping is really a menial crime for him. He is far more adept at orchestrating.”

“You sound like you admire him.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “His skill is certainly commendable, if not his actions.”

“Leave it to you to serenade a psychopath. You know, the one that had me a psychotic wreck for I don’t even know how many hours. And no, I don’t think I want to know.”

Sherlock closed his mouth. “I’m sorry, John. If it weren’t for me-”

“Stop right there. It’s not your fault some madman decided to kidnap me and drive me slowly insane. It happened, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make light of it so soon after, but it’s not your fault.”

“Of course.”

“You’re alright, though?”

“Nothing irreparable. Ready to be out of this blasted hospital, though.”

John smiled. “Did they give you an idea when you could be discharged?”

“They want to ensure I didn’t suffer any brain damage.” Sherlock snorted.

“Well I can do that. Let me talk to your doctor and-”

Sherlock grabbed John’s arm with his good hand before John could move away from the bed. “I am immensely relieved you are relatively unharmed and safe.”

“You, too.” John squeezed his hand and went off to find Sherlock’s physician.

 

With Greg’s help, John kept Sherlock from taking on any cases for a week after the explosion. When it was clear the concussion had been minor and there was no risk of complications, John reluctantly gave in to Sherlock’s incessant complaints of boredom. It didn’t help that Greg had texted John that morning saying he could really use Sherlock’s help on a case, with a blunt reminder that a week had passed.

In the cab on the way to the scene, John asked about Sherlock’s last case. “The ones who were strangled.”

“As I said last week, Moriarty’s skill is not in committing crime with his own hands, but orchestrating it from afar. Especially the absurd and spectacular.”

“That was Moriarty’s doing?”

“Yes. The suspect, and actual perpetrator of the murders, gave Moriarty’s name rather easily. Planned, I believe, on Moriarty’s part. Once I took the case, which he must have been waiting for, he made his move to kidnap you.”

“You solved the case quickly, then?”

“Quite. Strangulation was caused by a large species of constrictor neither native to the region nor found in any nearby zoos. The snake, therefore, was privately owned.”

“They trained a snake to choke people?”

“Roughly speaking, yes. It was starved and probably responded more out of that and other negative stimuli than legitimate training. I asked to study it, but they gave me some nonsense about being a danger to the public.”

“You or the snake?” John smirked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“So, what’s this case?”

“Lestrade didn’t tell you? Appears to be a murder-suicide, only they can’t identify a weapon. Large puncture wound in the throat of each victim.”

“What makes it look like a murder-suicide?”

“The note.”

“The killer-suicide left a note?”

“So it appears.”

“But there’s no weapon.”

“Rather sloppy cover-up.”

“If it’s a double homicide.”

Sherlock only grinned.

 

They had tracked their subject to an omega refuge. Lestrade had been in the middle of speaking with one of the workers when there was a loud crash in another part of the building. While officers bolted through the building, Sherlock made for the alleyways outside.

Sherlock had it figured right, as usual. The suspect had climbed out a window, and the crash had most likely been a diversion. John rushed ahead of Sherlock and barrelled into the man, knocking him flat.

“John!”

“Get Lestrade,” John shouted as he fought to keep the man under him pinned. A moment later, and a pair of officers ran into the alley and took over from John. As soon as they did, a hand grabbed the back of John’s collar and yanked him away. “Oi, get off!” He swatted at the hand, only to find it was attached to Sherlock. “What the hell?”

“What were you thinking, jumping him like that? He could have been armed!”

John straightened his skewed jumper.“Not if he was hiding out in refuge.”

“It was reckless.”

“Like you wouldn’t have done the same? At least I’ve got two working arms and all my ribs are whole.” John tapped the cast on Sherlock’s arm.

“It doesn’t matter. I-”

John cut him off. “What? You what? We’ve been flatmates for six months, and you’re going to pull the alpha card on me now? Bullshit.” He brushed past Sherlock and began walking with no destination in mind. He was seething.

“Wait. John, wait!”

John didn’t wait, but he didn’t speed up when he knew Sherlock was hurrying painfully after him.

“That’s not what I meant, John. I know you are more than capable.”

“Then why are you acting like such an arse about it? I dropped him, and I’m fine. Why are you so bloody worked up?”

“John, wait. I can’t—Please, stop walking for one minute.”

John stopped and looked at Sherlock. A wave of guilt hit him in the gut when he realised Sherlock was struggling against the pain of his fractured ribs. “I didn’t mean—are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine. I would like a moment to catch my breath after that little sprint, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock waved his hand. “Don’t be. Besides, I thought I was the one who was supposed to be apologising.”

John crossed his arms. “Right.”

“My words were out of concern, John, not doubt.”

“I’ve helped you take down people before. Why are you suddenly so dodgy about it?”

Sherlock shuffled his feet and gave an obvious wince to buy himself time.

John wasn’t buying it. “Sherlock, why-”

Sherlock met his eyes suddenly. They were shockingly emotive, and the most obvious emotion was fear. “Because I can’t, John. I can’t see you get hurt again, especially because of me.”

“What? This is about Moriarty? Sherlock, I’m fine. So my shoulders hurt like hell for a few days and I’ve got some bruises. It’s nothing next to what you got.”

“You have nightmares.”

John’s mouth opened a solid second before he actually said, “What?”

“I hear you, at night. You’ve been having them since he took you hostage.”

“Okay. So I’m suffering from a bit of PTSD. It’s still fresh. That doesn’t mean I’m going to break taking down one lousy coward.” He gestured back to the continuing semi-chaos almost a block away now.

“I realise that. I don’t know how to fix it, though.”

“Fix what? My nightmares? You can’t fix my nightmares, Sherlock. You don’t have to. It’s not your fault, and it’s not your problem.”

“It is my problem.”

“Am I keeping you up?”

“No.”

John rubbed his forehead. “Then how is it your problem?”

“I’m worried about you. I worry about you more than I should. It doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock huffed. “I know I shouldn’t, I know I have no reason to, but I do.”

“Sherlock,” John said quietly, taking a mental step backward to re-examine everything Sherlock had said in the past few minutes. “Are you… Do you, uhm, have feelings for me?”

Sherlock looked startled, and perhaps a little offended. “What? Why would you think—Oh.” Sherlock’s expression fell. “Oh.”

“What? ‘Oh’ what?”

“I suppose I do.”

“You suppose?”

“I hadn’t considered it.”

“So you were flipping out on me five minutes ago and hadn’t considered that maybe it was because you have a thing for me? God, you are unbelievable.” John wasn’t angry. Mostly he wanted to laugh. Part of him was slowly starting to panic. This was the exact opposite of what he wanted to happen with his new flatmate. Everything had been going so well. Sherlock had almost zero interest in relationships, let alone a romantic one. He had completely stayed out of the way during John’s heat, always treated him like an equal, and now he had a crush on John. Panic was definitely rising in John’s mind.

“John?” Sherlock called back his attention. “I wouldn’t—I won’t act on it. You know that, right? Now that I realise what’s happening, I can adjust my behaviour accordingly.”

“You’d do that? Act like your feelings don’t exist?”

“It is, historically, my usual course of action in such scenarios. I am more motivated to do so in this case to keep you from any discomfort. I value our friendship.”

Then John had his own epiphany: he didn’t want Sherlock to ignore those feelings. As much has he had wanted to avoid such a complication in their relationship and living arrangements, he realised that he wanted Sherlock to act on his feelings even more. It suddenly seemed very foolish and hypocritical to admonish Sherlock for his own self-ignorance. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t pretend.” John reached out and settled his palm against Sherlock’s coat lapel. “I don’t want to pretend.”

Sherlock covered John’s hand with his. “Are you sure?”

John nodded and, to emphasise his stance, curled his hand around the lapel and leaned up to press his lips to Sherlock’s. He felt the uncertainty in Sherlock’s kiss, but the kiss was there all the same.

Sherlock leant his forehead against John’s and closed his eyes. “I’m not very good at this sort of thing. Courting, relationships. It’s been a long time since I was interested in anyone.”

“Well, for starters, most people call it dating these days, not courting.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and gave him a wry look.

“Second, let’s go for dinner.”

“We’ve had dinner together before. We have dinner together almost every night.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t get to do this before.” John let go of Sherlock’s coat and captured his hand instead.


	5. Chapter 5

Two weeks after their first date, John was woken by a hand on his shoulder and a low voice calling his name. When he came around, he found Sherlock bent over him, illuminated by a strip of orange streetlight that had squeezed through the gap in John’s curtains.

“You were having one of your nightmares,” Sherlock said quietly when John was awake.

“Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”

“No, you didn’t wake me. I was concerned.”

John smiled sleepily. “Thanks.”

“Is there anything I can do? I’ve read certain herbal teas-”

John reached out half-blind and found Sherlock’s cast. He followed it to the exposed fingers, which curled around his. “It’s okay. I appreciate it, really, but I think I just want to go back to sleep.”

“Of course.” After a pause during which Sherlock didn’t leave, he said, “John?”

“Hm?”

“I read that human touch can be beneficial when dealing with trauma aftermath.”

John grinned in the darkness. “That so?” 

“Nothing invasive,” Sherlock hurriedly added. “Simple embraces, for example.”

“Alright.” John scooted away from the edge of his bed and lifted his covers.

Sherlock climbed in beside him. There was a minute of awkward manoeuvring, but it quickly gave way to the reassuring feel of Sherlock’s long arms wrapped around John, and John’s head resting against his chest. They hadn’t done more than snuggle on the sofa before that moment.

John breathed deeply, inhaling Sherlock’s scent. It was comforting, not in a purely romantic way either. It reminded him of the day he came home from school when he was ten, aching and bruised because he had stood up to three older alphas in defence of a beta boy. Harry had cleaned him up and tucked him into bed, and then she had climbed in beside him and held him close until he stopped crying and fell asleep. The sensation John was experiencing from Sherlock’s scent was similar to how Harry’s had felt as a child: safe, home. In that moment, John became determined to keep Sherlock in his life always, no matter how things panned out romantically.

 

Things between John and Sherlock moved quickly after the first night Sherlock held him to dispel his nightmares. They opted to stay in more instead of going out on typical dates, and crossing into each other’s physical space became less of an exciting novelty. John would brush a hand absently across the back of Sherlock’s neck when he passed by his workstation in the kitchen, or he would curl up against him or lay his head in Sherlock’s lap the second Sherlock joined him on the sofa. Sherlock would briefly touch John’s hip when he walked by John cooking or doing the washing up, and he would always climb into bed with John when he heard him having nightmares. Sometimes, John didn’t wake up, and he would discover himself wrapped cosily in the alpha’s long limbs come morning.

Their kisses lasted longer, grew harder and more urgent. Tongues emerged sooner to re-explore the other’s mouth. Hands sought frantically for purchase while trying not to be uninvitingly invasive. Neither of them would mention the other’s arousal they could feel through layers of pants and trousers, though more than once Sherlock looked to be on the verge of saying something.

John wanted him to say something. He wanted Sherlock to take him in every sense of the word. He didn’t want Sherlock to be so constantly hyperaware and over-concerned about coming on too strong, about moving too fast, however endearing his intentions were.

So, in late June, John finally took matters into his own hands. They had finished dinner and were snuggled together on the sofa. John was watching the news, and Sherlock was working on his laptop, occasionally making some derisive sound at something a reporter said.

John shut off the telly and sat up. “Sherlock, can we talk?”

Sherlock immediately closed his laptop and set it on the coffee table. “Is this about the tongues? I’ll only be needing them for a few more days.”

“No,” John chuckled. “This isn’t about the tongues.”

“Oh, good. I’d really like to keep them another week anyway.”

“And that we can talk about later. No, it’s about us. Nothing bad,” John added when Sherlock’s expression fell. He reached for the hand of Sherlock’s recently de-casted wrist. “My heat’s coming up soon, though. Probably in a month or so. And you need to know that I don’t like my first time with someone new to be during my heat.”

Sherlock nodded. “Of course, I understand. Whatever I can do to help, and, if that means staying out of the way, I-”

John laughed. He couldn’t help it. “My god, Sherlock. For a genius, you can be a real dolt sometimes.”

Sherlock frowned. “Am I missing something about you, or about omegas in general? You know my knowledge on the latter is extremely limited.”

“A bit of both. Going through heat, especially without an alpha, can be miserable. I don’t want to go through it alone, not if I don’t have to. Not if you’ll go through it with me.”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied, eager to please. “Whatever you need, whatever you want.”

John sank his fingers into Sherlock’s thick curls. “I’m waiting for you to put two and two together here.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to question, but it quickly turned into, “Oh.”

“Genius detective at work.”

Sherlock gave him a half-scowl before asking, “When?”

“I’m free tonight.” John smirked.

“Tonight?”

“Well, I was thinking, more specifically, now.”

“I don’t—I want to, of course—but I don’t have any condoms.”

John laughed and gave Sherlock’s curls a slight pull. “Oh, love, I’ve been ready for you to fuck me for weeks.” He leaned up and pulled Sherlock’s head down to kiss him, hard and wanting.

Sherlock’s arms immediately wrapped around John’s torso and pulled John against him. John twisted his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and tugged. The alpha released a half-groan, half-growl into John’s mouth that made his insides squirm pleasantly. He wanted to climb on top of Sherlock then and there.

“Bedroom?” Sherlock panted against the corner of John’s mouth.

“Your bed’s bigger.”

“Mhm.”

They stumbled from the lounge, through the kitchen, and back to Sherlock’s bedroom. They stopped only for John to fetch the condoms and a small bottle of lube he had stashed in the cabinet.

“Bear with me,” Sherlock said as he closed his door, “but, if memory serves, the omega body produces its own lubricant.”

John set the things on Sherlock’s nightstand. “Sure, but only during heat does an omega man make enough to flood the anal canal. Outside of heat, a little assistance is needed to keep the initial entrance from being painful.” John paused and chuckled. “My inner doctor took over for a moment there. Not exactly dirty talk, huh?”

“I brought it up.” Sherlock smoothed his hands down John’s arms. “The last thing I want to do is to cause you pain.” He dipped his head down, past John’s, and pressed his mouth against John’s neck. His hands pushed up under jumper and vest both, learning John’s skin first by touch.

John let himself be tasted and undressed. He couldn’t decide between getting on with it or savouring every moment, so he let Sherlock set the pace, at least this time. He toyed with the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, but he only had three undone by the time his own trousers and pants were around his ankles. He whined at the unexpected palm against his diminutive omega prick. It was a pleasant surprise, as it usually seemed like most alphas were only concerned about their own cocks, completely forgetting how sensitive an omega man’s was during arousal, and how pleasurable the attention to it was. It was clear Sherlock was not such an alpha, as his touch was not only intentional, but not in the least bit fleeting.

Sherlock finished the job John had begun on his shirt and started on his trousers. There was a definite hesitation, leading John to look at him questioningly. “I don’t want you to be disappointed. I fall at the lower end of the spectrum with regard to size.”

John smiled and kissed Sherlock’s chin. “I don’t care. If it makes you feel better, though, I’ve had a tendency in the past toward women. Maybe I have a thing for smaller.”

Sherlock nodded and finished undressing. His concerns were definitely unfounded, in John’s opinion. Sherlock’s prick had to have been twice as long as John’s full seven centimetres. If Sherlock was on the lower side of average, it wasn’t by much.

John returned Sherlock’s earlier attentiveness and gave the alpha a long, slow stroke. Sherlock grabbed John’s hips with a shudder.

“Been a while?” John shot Sherlock a coy smile as he gave him another stroke.

Sherlock’s fingers dug harder into John. “A very, very long while.”

“If you need any reminders, let me know.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. Without warning, he pushed John back onto the bed and leaned over him with his hands above John’s shoulders. “I think I remember how it works.”

John grinned up at him. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and pulled him down to bite his bottom lip.

Sherlock shifted them completely onto the bed. He nosed under John’s jaw and licked his neck. There was a scrape on the nightstand, followed by the pop of the bottle’s cap. John bent his legs to set his feet flat on the mattress and tilted his hips up.

However long it had been, however little experience he had, Sherlock proved he was more than capable. John had never been prepared so slowly, with such lavish strokes against his inner walls. All the while, Sherlock kissed his mouth and nibbled at his jaw and neck, nuzzling and scenting the crooks of his neck.

“I think I’m,” he panted, squirming around Sherlock’s fingers, “yeah, ready. Plenty ready.”

Sherlock’s fingers stilled and he sucked a spot on John’s neck before pulling his digits out. John focused on replenishing the oxygen in his lungs while Sherlock rolled on a condom. Then Sherlock’s hands were on his thighs, pushing his legs further back and spreading his arse as he pushed into John.

John moaned as Sherlock sank into him, as Sherlock’s cock breached his internal vagina, long since slicked with his natural lubricant. He heard a strange noise come from Sherlock when this happened, like he sounded surprised. John reached up and hung his arms on Sherlock’s neck, weighing his head down until John could kiss him.

Sherlock’s first few thrusts were slow and careful until he was fully erect and knotted inside John. Then his pace quickly grew and each thrust landed the head of his cock more firmly inside John’s cunt.

John keened, wrapping his legs around Sherlock and digging his fingers into Sherlock’s shoulders. When he felt Sherlock’s hand push between their bodies to rub his prick, John’s entire body locked around Sherlock, inside and out, and he came none too quietly.

Sherlock came with a long, low groan as he pushed as deep as he could into John. As his orgasm subsided, he slumped completely onto John. John didn’t mind. In fact, it was a wonderful feeling, Sherlock’s heat enveloping him in their mutual post-orgasmic haze. He combed his fingers lazily through Sherlock’s curls until Sherlock had gone flaccid enough to pull out.

After he tossed the condom, he gathered John close. John didn’t miss the brief moment when Sherlock paused to look at John’s own now flaccid penis.

John snuggled up against Sherlock’s chest and murmured, “Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“You’ve never had sex with a male omega before, have you?”

The hesitation was answer enough, but John waited for Sherlock to speak it aloud. “No, I hadn’t.”

“You could have just said so.”

“Was it-”

“It was fine. It was wonderful.” John tilted his head up. “You?”

Sherlock nodded and kissed John’s forehead. “John? What’s it like, during your heat?”

“For me? Or what it’s going to be like for you?”

“Both. And us.”

John sighed. “You’ll probably start off thinking it’s some of the best sex you’ve ever had. Then it starts draining you. Part of you doesn’t want to stop, and another part of you is screaming to come up for air. The last bit is pretty much how it feels for me through most of it. The problem is, when the omega is most desperate for relief, the alpha is already tired out. At least, if it’s not planned carefully. It’s difficult, because our pheromones react to one another. The sharp increase in omega pheromones starts a cycle that doesn’t even begin to subside for days. Literally, four or five days. The best way to handle it is willpower: hold out as much as possible, and try not to fall into rapid succession when you do give in. It’s hard, even among couples who have been together for years.” John nuzzled under Sherlock’s chin. “Did I scare you off?”

“No, though it certainly doesn’t sound as pleasant as my classmates at uni made it out to be.”

“Alphas, right? They like to boast about it, especially when they’re not in a serious relationship. When you aren’t around for the long haul, a few intense fucks is probably pretty grand.”

“Makes sense.”

John leaned back a little. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t condone their actions, but I understand them.”

“Uh huh.”

Sherlock pulled John back in. “I’ll do whatever you need to help you through your heat. I promise.”

John smiled and once more nestled against Sherlock. It had been a long time since he hadn’t entirely dreaded his impending heat.

 

The next day, John took advantage of the quiet day to do some picking up around the flat. Sherlock was off at St. Bart’s, no doubt harassing Molly and others for access to materials and equipment not usually available to the general public.

He came across Sherlock’s laptop, abandoned on his chair, and noticed a low battery warning had popped up. He smiled fondly to himself at the thought of such a brilliant man being so oblivious sometimes. He brought it over to the desk and plugged it in. Before he walked away, the low battery warning disappeared and revealed what Sherlock had last been reading on his computer.

John didn’t mean to pry. He had no intention of breeching Sherlock’s privacy like that. However, he couldn’t ignore what he at first only glimpsed. He pushed the screen back a little more. The browser was open on a page about anatomy. Specifically, male anatomy, with a branched diagram separating first omegas from betas and alphas and, no doubt further down, the latter two from each other. But Sherlock hadn’t gone that far. He hadn’t gone very far at all in fact. The diagrams showed the differentiation in the reproductive systems, the development of the uterus in omegas, and the delineation between the Skene’s gland and the prostate.

At first, John smiled to himself at the genius’ underlying ignorance. He could identify dozens of causes of death, knew the streets of London better than most cabbies, and had a network of homeless people; but he didn’t know the earth revolved around the sun or, apparently, some of the more basic lessons from biology.

He remembered Sherlock’s moment of surprise when he penetrated John’s vagina the previous night. Then his memory went back to earlier than that, to Sherlock stretching him open. He had spent so long at it, and, initially, John had simply taken it for granted and enjoyed it. Now he thought about Sherlock’s motions, the sweeps and slight curls of his finger—just below his vagina.

John was a doctor. John knew human biology extremely well. It was only his reluctance that kept him from making the instant connection. By the time Sherlock came home, though, reluctance had turned to fear and an underlying, steadily growing anger.

“We need to talk,” John said once Sherlock had hung up his coat and scarf.

Sherlock paused and gave John one of his sweeping looks, taking in every detail in an instant. “This isn’t the same kind of talk as last night’s, is it?”

“No.” John stood from the sofa and went to Sherlock’s laptop. He raised the screen.

Sherlock walked over slowly. “As I said last night, I had never had intercourse with an omega male before. You didn’t seem overly concerned by this last night.”

“I’m not an idiot, Sherlock.” John snapped the laptop shut. “It took me a little bit of thinking outside of the moment, but I’m not an idiot.” John crossed his arms, as much a gesture of anger as self-protection. “You’ve slept with men before, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied quietly.

“Betas?”

“One, and an alpha.”

John’s stomach twisted. “Have you ever slept with a beta or omega woman?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“God. I can’t believe this.” He paced over to his chair and fell into it.

“Does it matter?” Sherlock circled around to his own chair, sitting with more caution.

“Of course it matter! This is screwed up, Sherlock. And you didn’t even tell me.”

“Why?”

“Why should you have told me?”

“No, I admit I should have said something. Why is it screwed up?”

John gaped, his fury rising. “Why? Why is an alpha fucking alpha and beta men screwed up?”

Sherlock nodded.

“It’s not right!”

“Why?” Sherlock said again, and the word began to grate in John’s head. “Because there’s no potential for conception? That’s how it is for betas, for someone who’s past childbearing. Should I stop fucking you after you stop going into heat?”

John let out a harsh laugh. “You think you’re ever fucking me again?”

Sherlock’s expression went from defiant to shattered in an instant, which John found both satisfying and painful. “I like men. I don’t find women physically appealing. I tend to form close bonds with men, when I form them at all. I don’t care about someone’s reproductive system, functional or not. Isn’t it more important that I care about you for who you are, not for what your body can or can’t do?”

John couldn’t say no to that, but he also couldn’t take it as the end all be all. He leaned forward, kneading his knuckles into his temples and forehead.

Harry and Clara was one thing. Betas couldn’t help what they were, so why should they be ostracised and unloved for it? This, though. If Sherlock had such a preference for men—it wasn’t as if there was a shortage of omega men in the world. Why—how could he turn to betas and alphas?

“I just don’t understand,” he muttered aloud.

“I don’t know why you have to, but I’ll try to help you understand if I can.”

John looked up at him. He looked pain and desperate. It seemed he really did want to make this right with John. As for his part, no matter how angry and confused and hurt he was feeling, John wasn’t ready to let go of Sherlock. It didn’t change how John felt when Sherlock had held him, how it had been a long time since John had felt that way in someone’s arms. “Tell me about them.”

“Who?”

“You said you had two lovers before me.”

“Three.” Sherlock glanced slightly off to the side of direct eye contact. “There was an alpha woman.”

John sucked in a sharp breath. “Fine. Tell me about them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock nodded. “I was sixteen the first time. I had figured out my orientation toward men, even non-omegas, some time ago. When I came out to my best mate, another alpha, he didn’t take it well at first. Kept away from me for several days. When he did finally talk to me again, he told me he had been scared because he felt the same way, and in fact he felt that way about me. I was flattered. More than flattered. I was foolish and thought, not only has he accepted me, but he loves me. I thought, this is someone I could be with. I let him fuck me. I was happy to. I even stretched myself when he said he’d never done it before and was nervous, whereas I had experimented plenty. Then he fucked me, and, when he was done, he started laughing. He called me a freak and a queer and told me to get out. The next week at school, he told everyone how sick I was, how I had taken it like an omega in heat. Even the betas and omegas looked sideways at me. I ended up at a different school for sixth form.

“The woman was different. I met her during my second year at uni. She was the first person I had met outside my family whose intelligence came close to my own. She was brilliant in other ways, though. She was open about her preferences for other alphas. People talked behind her back, but it never phased her. And she still had friends. Not many, but a couple who didn’t care. I’d never met someone so bold before. It was the first and only time I ever found myself attracted to a woman. I was scared of course. I had always feared a repeat of what my friend had put me through. Behind her brash exterior, though, she was both brash and kind. She bullied me into not treating myself so poorly, taught me not to care about what strangers thought of me. I could love against the laws of biology, and that was nothing to be ashamed of. We slept together a few times. She was always careful, whether it was slow or fast, gentle or rough. She taught me more about my own body than I ever thought there was to know. When she broke it off, she told me she could really fall for a guy like me, if it wasn’t so obvious I still had my reservations about being with a woman. She told me to give her a call next time I needed a good fuck, but, otherwise, to go find someone I could really be with, in heart as much as in body.

“She actually introduced me to the third. I had had passing attractions to beta men before, but he was the first—and the first person—I truly fell for. We became friends some time before we became lovers. He was the first non-omega man I knew who enjoyed being taken as much as I did. We were together for over a year.”

It became clear that was all Sherlock would say about the last one. John said quietly, “What happened?”

Sherlock gave a shrug. It was as nonchalant and detached as he dared to get at that moment. “We clashed as much as we got on. One too many fights.”

John stood, but he didn’t go anywhere for a minute. When he looked at Sherlock, he found the alpha watching him intently. There wasn’t much to read in his face, except that it was softer than usual. Patient. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Where does this leave us?” Sherlock said as John turned away.

“I don’t know.” He grabbed his phone and keys and walked out without another word or glance at Sherlock.

 

For the next few days, John said little to Sherlock. If Sherlock was home, John would go out for the day. He walked mostly, and he people-watched. He wondered how many people out there were like Sherlock, loving against the laws of nature. He wondered if there was anyone else he knew who did, or had. Would he think of them differently? Of course, how could he not? Would it change how much he cared about them? He thought of his closest mates, of Harry, of Clara. He thought of Mary. If she had had relationships with other alphas or with a beta man before John, would he have loved her any less? Would he have put it all aside for the way they made each other feel, for the wonderful four years he had spent with her? She had loved John with all her heart, he could never doubt that. Maybe that’s all that mattered in the end, not the past, but how two people fit together then and there.

As romantic a notion as it was, John still couldn’t shake his discomfort. He needed someone to talk to. Only, most of the people he knew also knew Sherlock, and he wasn’t about to let that information out among mutual friends and acquaintances.

Clara met him for lunch later in the week. They sat outside a café nowhere near Baker Street or any of Sherlock’s usual haunts, or John’s for that matter. Clara put a box on the table and slid it across to John. “I know it’s early, but since I get to see you.”

“Clara, you didn’t have to.”

“I know. I wanted to. I knew you almost as long as I knew Harry. It wasn’t you I divorced, Johnny.”

John opened the box. Inside was a new pager, a brand new model. It really did pay working in electronics. “Thank you.”

“You bitched about your old one a few times in e-mails.”

“Did I? It really is a piece of shit.”

Clara smiled. “So, why the clandestine rendezvous?”

“In the middle of London on a Friday afternoon?”

“Far from home and work.”

John sighed. “Noticed that, huh?”

“What’s wrong, John?”

John shut the box with the pager. “It’s about Sherlock.”

Clara frowned. “Not good I take it, by the look on your face. I thought things were going well, aside from the whole waiting for him to make the first move thing.”

“They were. Then I found out about him, about his history.” John put particular emphasis on the last word.

“Sexual deviant, huh?” Clara raised an eyebrow. “What’s he into? Bondage? Roleplay?”

John lowered his voice and answered, “Other alphas.”

Clara blinked a few times before she said, “Oh.”

“Sort of anyway. He says he’s mostly attracted to men, and he doesn’t care if they’re not omegas. Though, I’m the first omega he’s been with.”

“I see.”

John grimaced. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Is there something to do?”

“I mean, do I stay with him or not? I don’t want to leave him, but this is really throwing me.”

Clara reached across the table and covered John’s hand. “I’m going to tell you a secret, John. It’s the biggest secret that no one admits: most people in our generation have done it.”

John sat back. “What?”

“I’m not saying they’ve gone full steam and all the way, but most people have at least fantasized it at one time or another. Even if it was once, there’s a certain combo of curiosity mixed with puberty that tends to make us all wonder.”

“I never did,” John said curtly.

“You had Mary. Who the hell would ever fantasize about anything else with that woman at their side?” She gave him a gentle smile. “You were with Mary since sixth form, John. Then you were too heartbroken to think of anyone like that. By the time you started looking at people that way again, puberty was over for you. You were all grown up.”

John shifted uneasily in his chair. “You did?”

“Fantasize about someone without a prick and bollocks? Sure. I even did more than fantasize once.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. I tried it, with a really sweet omega girl. She said I had an ‘alpha vibe.’ At the end of the day, though, I like my partner with a certain set of genitals.” She leaned her forearms on the table. “But if Harry hadn’t been an alpha, I wouldn’t have loved her any less. I’m not saying I’d jump into a relationship like that, but, if I really loved the person, I don’t think I could turn away from it.”

John nodded. “I wish I could say it’s that easy for me. It’s one thing to say I’d have loved Mary regardless, and maybe I even believe it, but that’s with hindsight. I don’t even know if I love Sherlock. I certainly don’t know if he loves me.”

“Well, you haven’t gone running, so I think that indicates something. Obviously you care about him, and you like him.”

John rubbed his hands down his face and sat back. “I do, I really do.” He gnawed at his lip for a moment. “There’s one thing I can’t shake, though. More than the rest.”

“I’m all ears.”

“He said… I asked him to tell me about his past relationships, to try and understand. I don’t know if it helped, and it might have just confused me more. He said he enjoys being taken.”

Clara’s brow rose. “Ah.” Then, “Oh.” She frowned and said, “John, are you afraid he’ll ask you? To fuck him?”

John went back to gnawing his lip and nodded.

“Well, if it comes up, you’ve got two options: say no, or give it a try.”

“What?” John yelped a little too loudly. A few people glanced their way, but no one’s attention stuck. He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “What do you mean, ‘give it a try’?”

“I mean, try it. See what it’s like. If you don’t enjoy it, don’t do it again. Maybe you will enjoy it. And if you don’t or you say no to begin with, then he won’t push it if he’s worth anything.” Clara covered his hands with hers. “John, a little experimentation is not the end of the world. I’m not telling you to start swinging in every direction, but with this one guy, if you get to a point where maybe you’re willing and you trust each other enough to try something different, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“You’re insane.”

Clara grinned. “That I am.”

John groaned and rested his forehead on their hands for a moment.

“Don’t think too much about it. Right now, you need to decide if he’s important enough to you. He travels off the beaten path. If you don’t want that, then end it. If you can look past it, or even accept it and accept him, stick with him for now."

“Off the beaten path.” John raised his head and smirked. “You have no idea.”

“If you do stick around with this one, I want to meet him.”

“That’d be terrifyingly interesting.”

Clara squeezed his hands. “Feel better now?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Now you can tell me about the obviously wonderful time he gave you in bed.”

“You’re impossible.” They fell into a bought of giggles, and John felt the week’s tension slide away.


	6. Chapter 6

Three weeks after John made up with Sherlock, he went into heat. He had gone over everything with Sherlock in the days leading up to it, multiple times at Sherlock’s request. John had never known Sherlock to so visibly concentrate on anything anyone said. It was endearing. It was more than endearing.

Sherlock ordered the plastic cover and sets of thick sheets that would fit his own bed. John didn’t even have a chance to argue, as they arrived before he even knew Sherlock had bought them. He went with John to the shops to learn how he stocked up for a heat. He grew increasingly antsy, to the point where John was almost relieved when he felt his heat coming on.

When he went downstairs that first morning of his heat, he found Sherlock sitting rigidly in his chair. John gave him a sleepy smile. “Smell it?”

Sherlock nodded.

“You’re rock hard right now, aren’t you?”

Another nod.

“You can wank off, you know. Just because I’m holding out doesn’t mean you have to.”

“I’ll be fine.”

John shook his head and went on to the kitchen to make a large breakfast for the both of them.

He took a long shower, and when he emerged he could smell Sherlock in the next room, and the aftermath of his orgasm. John grinned to himself, but he also felt grateful that Sherlock was showing resolve and respect. John wasn’t near close to succumbing to his heat, though Sherlock’s scent certainly pushed him a little closer. He was still in the slightly fuzzy mind phase, like he couldn’t quite wake up completely or there was something he was supposed to be doing. He tried watching a bit of telly, but not an hour later resigned to reading. Every omega had their quirks during heat, and photosensitivity had always been John’s biggest. When he had gone through his heats with Mary at his side, she would sing or read to him while he lay in bed with his eyes closed, and only a single lamp on in the room. He had still been going through puberty then, though, and his heats had often felt unbearable and came every two months and everything was far more intense than it was now, at thirty-one with six-to-seven months between heats.

 

On the second morning, John woke to a still-sleeping Sherlock humping his side. He laughed and gently coaxed Sherlock out of his dream. When Sherlock was awake and confronted by the realisation of what he had been doing, he looked absolutely horrified and began apologising profusely and offering to sleep in the other bed that night.

John shut him up with a kiss. He slid his hand through the opening in Sherlock’s pyjamas and gave his cock a leisurely stroke. “Want me to finish that off for you?”

“Only if you want to.”

“Oh, I want to.” John pulled down Sherlock’s pyjamas until they were halfway down his thighs. He wrapped his hand around the partly erect shaft and pulled the foreskin back from the head.

As good as John was with his hands, he had never been particularly fond of giving head before. It had always felt like being fucked in a different hole. Sherlock, however, taught him it could be more than that, an entirely different experience. In fact, he had showed him. After some coaxing, John had agreed to let Sherlock suck him. He had still needed a toy penetrating him before he could finally climax, but there was no arguing that what Sherlock did with his mouth was incredible, and nothing at all like John had done in the past. When all was said and done, John was eager to return the favour.

By that morning, he knew exactly how to bring Sherlock off with his mouth. He was still practicing, and sometimes he liked to see how quickly he could accomplish the task, or how long he could drag it out before Sherlock did start thrusting semi-involuntarily into his mouth. He didn’t usually care for the taste, though he had swallowed a couple times. That morning, however, everything about Sherlock’s body was amazing. His scent, his taste, the feel of him in John’s hand and mouth, the sound of his shallow breathing and little moans. That morning, he tasted wonderful, and John swallowed every drop of him.

Sherlock made breakfast while John took a cold shower. Heats during the summer had that pro, though the con was he would feel even more miserable in his own skin at the peak. As it was, he spent the rest of the day without so much as a vest above the waste.

“You could walk around naked,” Sherlock said over breakfast. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“And if I wasn’t about to start leaking everywhere, I’d take you up on that.” He gave Sherlock a half-smile. What little relief the shower had provided was already diminished. He needed something in him.

Sherlock deposited their plates in the sink and went over to John. He put a hand on the back of his neck and leaned down, inhaling deeply at the crook. “Let me help.”

Back in Sherlock’s room, John lay naked on his side. Sherlock lay at his back, one hand tracing the various lines of John’s body, and some lines that weren’t there. The other hand worked one of John’s dildos inside him, adjusting speed and force however John asked. It was nice not to have to focus on a precise rhythm, to simply feel until he came, his hand rubbing the head of his tender prick.

He told Sherlock to leave the dildo in for a minute after his orgasm. Once he was breathing normally again, he nodded for Sherlock to slide it carefully out. When he had, John rolled onto his back. Sherlock curled against his side, nosing against his neck and behind his ear. John smiled and began stroking his curls, his eyes drooping closed.

 

John slept restlessly that night. Early in the morning, he woke gasping, which frightened Sherlock for a moment. John scrabbled through his box for his large vibrating dildo, the one with the artificial knot. On his own, he would never use it so early in his heat, but now he had the real thing to look forward to, and he needed relief fast. He was trembling as he pushed it inside himself, until he felt Sherlock’s hand cover his and help him guide it in. Sherlock kissed his shoulder and flipped the switch. Then he covered John’s hot prick with his hand and helped bring him to an almost painful orgasm.

He lay shivering long after the dildo was out. Sherlock rubbed his hands in circles on John’s back. John managed to doze off for a few more hours. When he woke again, it was in full heat.

“I’m about to—lose my head,” John said, his breath fast and shallow. “Remember—what I told you—to stop me—if-”

Sherlock laid a palm on John’s chest. “I remember.”

John gave a jerky nod. He let out a small sob. “Christ.”

“Tell me when.”

“I don’t think I can—now. Please, now.” His legs were shaking as he raised them.

Sherlock, already undressed and hard—he really did have amazing self-control—slipped quickly between John’s thighs. “Fast or slow?” he said as he rolled on a condom.

“I—I don’t-” John choked back another sob.

Sherlock didn’t try pulling an answer out of him. He pushed and slid easily into John. “God,” he breathed when he was completely inside.

John clenched around him, his hips jerking ineffectually. He needed the knot. “Sherlock,” he whined.

“Right, of course.” He barely needed more than a single thrust for his knot to swell inside of John.

John let out a little broken sigh and his body relaxed for a moment. “Can you—can you hold it there, for a moment?”

“Whatever you need,” Sherlock said, a slight strain to his voice.

It had been a long time since John had had an actual cock in him during a heat, and he relished the moment. It was only a moment, though, because soon his body craved more than simply being filled. He nodded to Sherlock and breathed, “Go.”

John cried out at the first knotted thrust. He wrapped his legs around Sherlock and gripped the sides of his pillow. Sherlock was finally giving into the desires of his own body reacting to John’s heat, and he pounded into John with his face buried John’s neck, sucking the sweat off his skin, fingers digging hard into John’s hips.

The friction was never right during heat. John was too wet, and the most he could hope for was to feel filled. Sherlock filled him. There was no artificial substitute for an alpha’s knotted cock, especially when that alpha’s own body had been affected by constant exposure to an omega in heat. Sherlock had hardly left John’s side.

John’s orgasm came quick and was far from satisfying. Sherlock wasn’t near enough to his own yet, and he was forced to stop as John’s body clamped tight around his thick knot, allowing little more than a shimmy of movement.

Still, Sherlock seemed willing and ready to pull out when John’s body opened enough again for him to do so. John grabbed his arm, though. “Keep going,” he panted.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Sherlock said.

“I’ll tell you if you’re hurting me.”

So Sherlock picked it back up, almost exactly where he had left off. He brought John to a second orgasm, and this one gave John a little more relief. Sherlock was close enough then that the added pressure of John’s climax brought on his own.

“Next time,” John said, “you don’t have to stop until you come, unless I ask you to.”

Sherlock nodded. When their bodies allowed them to come apart easily, he sat back on his haunches.

John pushed himself up on his elbows. “You seem a little shocked.”

“I’m fine. Some of that was unexpected.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Sherlock blinked away the haze and focused on John. “You seem…”

“Sober? It won’t last long. I think I’m going to take a piss while it does, though.” He rolled out of bed and walked on less than sturdy legs to the toilet.

John returned to find Sherlock laying flat on his back. At first, he thought the alpha was already trying to get himself hard again. After another look, though, he realised the touch was less intent. John grimaced and walked into the room.

“Hurts?”

Sherlock’s hand left his groin. “No.”

John sat on the edge of the bed. “Sherlock.”

“Tender, that’s all.”

“I’ll use the vibrator next.”

Sherlock sat up. “I’m fine.”

“It’s alright, you know. You wouldn’t be the first to get sore during all this. It’s normal.”

“But-”

John covered Sherlock’s lips with his fingers. “I’ve got another two days of this after today. You’re not missing out on anything.”

Sherlock scowled. “That’s not my concern.”

“Love, I’ve had to go a lot of heats with only toys. Switching off between them and you is still better than going this alone. Hell, you simply being here, even using them alone, makes a world of difference.”

Sherlock relaxed a little. “It does?”

John smiled and nodded. “I’d be a sopping, incoherent mess right now if I were doing this on my own.” He leaned over and kissed Sherlock. “You being here gives me a way to ground myself. It gives me moments of lucidity.”

Sherlock gathered John up and pulled him into his lap, nuzzling the nape of his neck.

 

There was no hope for a decent nap, let alone a full night’s sleep, at this point in his heat. It was rather fortuitous that his alpha wasn’t one to sleep much during a normal week. John woke, after a barely twenty-minute nap, writhing and keening. He felt like his insides had been scraped out and filled with hot coals. This was the backlash to his moments of lucidity, the other end of the spectrum that having an alpha during heat caused. 

John had given Sherlock a pass for the rest of the day, giving his alpha hand jobs and oral after Sherlock helped him get through each wave with his toys. Now, though, John needed Sherlock inside him.

Sherlock was only half-asleep when John shook him. As soon as he saw what was happening, he grabbed a condom from the half-empty box on the nightstand. Once it was on, John pushed him back onto the bed. Without a word, he lowered himself onto Sherlock with a whine. He splayed his hands on Sherlock’s chest and rocked, savouring the sensation of Sherlock growing hard inside him. When he was completely erect, John pushed himself up and bore down again. He did it a few more times until he felt the knot. 

John leaned back, sliding his feet forward to settle next to Sherlock’s shoulders, and set his hands on either side of Sherlock’s slightly bent legs. “Move,” he growled, eyes screwed shut as his body howled.

Sherlock raised his thighs more and put his hands on John’s hips.

John shoved his hands away and leaned back again. “Just move.”

The thrusts were shallow but came in quick succession, jostling John’s whole body, but definitely hitting the mark. He didn’t argue with the tentative hand around his prick, and he might have even nodded. He lost the ability for coherent thought a while back.

This time, Sherlock came first, and John kept riding him even after his hips went still. He didn’t stop until Sherlock grabbed his hips and said his name sharply.

John opened his eyes and looked down at his alpha. He barely registered the taught expression. “Sherlock,” he choked.

Sherlock rolled them over and pulled out. He fetched John’s second biggest dildo, next to the one with the artificial knot. It had a little more length, though. He pushed it inside, and John arched off the bed in a desperate attempt to get the relief he needed. Sherlock eased him back down with his other hand on his chest. As he worked the dildo, his other hand returned to John’s prick. It was too sensitive, though, and sore. John whined and batted it away. So instead, Sherlock moved his fingers up, to rub his nipple. He kissed across his neck, and then used his mouth on the other nipple. He had amazing coordination, and, after a little added pressure in the right places, was able to bring John off with a loud, high moan.

John curled in on himself after Sherlock removed the dildo. He was shaking and crying quietly. Sherlock rubbed his side and back, kissed his shoulder and head occasionally. “I’m sorry,” John whimpered. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Sherlock gave his shoulder a light squeeze. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not! I hurt you. Oh god, I’m sorry.”

Sherlock lay down with his chest against John’s back and worked his arms into John’s unyielding cocoon so he could wrap them around his torso. “I’m alright, John.” He pressed his forehead against the back of John’s neck. “It’s fine. We’re fine,” he whispered against the sweat-drenched skin of his back. He kissed the spot where his breath landed and hugged John tight.

 

John was too scared of what he’d done to let himself take control like that again. He didn’t even want Sherlock in him. Sherlock was more than amenable to the latter through the rest of the day and into the next. It left John physically and emotionally wrecked.

He wanted to crawl away to his room, lock himself in and deal with the rest of this heat like he had dealt with most of his heats in the last decade: alone, miserable, and without dragging anyone else into it. He offered to do exactly that, repeatedly, but Sherlock would tell him not to be ridiculous and kiss him and hold him until John stopped shaking, or until the next wave came.

It wasn’t until John’s heat started its slow decline—two days after the incident—that Sherlock said he wanted to penetrate John again. It was still a lot sooner than John would have expected, or he himself was ready for.

“I trust you,” Sherlock insisted at John’s reticence.

“I don’t trust me.”

“Then trust me.” Sherlock pulled John’s head toward him and kissed the top of it. “I have an idea, something to try. And it’ll work that if I need to pull out, I can.”

John eventually agreed, mostly because the next wave was about to crash over him and he had to make a decision one way or the other, and he guiltily made the selfish one. He had long since started to revaluate his thoughts on how being able to go between toys and an actually cock was easier than being stuck only with toys.

Sherlock gathered him up and kissed him deeply. That alone helped John to relax. John reached down and gently stroked Sherlock. Once he was hard and they had a condom on, Sherlock turned them around on the bed so that, when he lay John down, it was across the width of the bed.

John’s breath hitched as Sherlock stood at the edge of the bed and lifted John’s thighs up and around his waist. He spread John’s arse and pushed into him. “Alright?” he said, stroking the backs of John’s thighs with curling fingers, his palms holding most of the weight. John nodded and hugged Sherlock’s hips with his legs.

As soon as Sherlock was knotted and moving inside of him, John wondered why they hadn’t done this days ago. Before his heat even. It was certainly the best he felt since his heat began. It was also the closest they came to reaching orgasm at the same time. There was still a noticeable disparity, with Sherlock coming first, but he was able to bring John off before he pulled out.

“We need to do that always,” John murmured when they were both laying in bed properly again.

Sherlock laughed and kissed his temple. “I’m glad it worked.”

“Did some research while I was sleeping, hm?” John smiled lazily.

“I heard no complaints.”

“Oh, no complaints. Good thing one of us has their head on straight right now.”

“It’s only temporary. I completely expect you to be the sensible one again when this week is over.”

John giggled and curled up snugly against him, not wholly dreading the next wave.


	7. Chapter 7

Come November, John had been living at Baker Street for over a year, and he had been with Sherlock for half of that time. Whatever misgivings John had about Sherlock’s past faded to the back of his mind. For the first time since losing Mary, John felt truly happy with his lot in life.

Sherlock still drove him round the bend with his experiments and failure to accomplish the simplest of household chores, like picking up after himself. He continued to lack any means of decorum with Lestrade and the rest of the Yard, as well as most of his clients.

Then he would turn around and surprise John with startling insightfulness about human emotion, or with how hyper-attentive he was to John. One moment he would seem completely oblivious to John’s annoyance over something, but the next he would recognise something that truly hurt or angered John.

They could spend days in comfortable domestic quiet, and others arguing or fucking through the whole night. It was insane and sometimes volatile and John enjoyed every moment of it.

Greg showed up a few days after Armistice Day. John invited him in with the caveat, “Sherlock’s not here.”

“I know. I need to talk to you.”

John took a closer look and noticed the strained expression in the DI, the way he looked at John without quite looking at him. “Is this a ‘you should sit down’ talk?”

Greg didn’t even attempt to smile. He nodded and they settled on the sofa. “John, I’m here as a friend as much as a cop right now.”

“Sherlock? Is he-”

“He’s fine, right now. He’s in for questioning, though.”

“Questioning? Like, questioning a suspect?” John knew that wasn’t what Greg meant, but the ignorant part of him wanted to hope.

“He’s being questioned. As a suspect.”

“Greg, what happened? What did he do?”

“Nothing, I hope. God, I hope to hell he did nothing.”

“Of course he—tell me, Greg. What’s going on?”

Greg’s hands were clenched, one fisted into the other, knuckles white. “He’s under suspicion of multiple murders.”

“What?” John felt the air scrape against his lungs. “Greg, you can’t be serious.”

“I don’t believe he’s guilty, John, but my opinion is pretty useless right now. The reason I’m not the one questioning him is because I’ve been deemed too personally involved. It doesn’t look good for him, though.”

“Does he need an alibi? I can-”

“No. They don’t think it was him who actually committed the murders. They think he paid someone off.”

“Where are they even getting this?” John said a little too loudly. “Are they mad?”

“It’s the victims. The only tie they have is Sherlock worked their cases. The serial rapist case, when we first met? All three women were shot in their own homes. The caseworker who made the beta woman’s death look like a suicide? Same. Even half the criminals Sherlock’s helped put away in the last two years were found dead in their cells this past week. We’ve got everyone else connected to a case Sherlock’s consulted on under surveillance, some even in protective custody.” Greg combed his fingers through his hair. “It’s bad, John. They even have eyes on known members of his ‘homeless network’.”

“This is insane.” John’s voice was quiet. He felt sick. He wanted this to be a dream, a twisted nightmare, or, hell, even a really distasteful prank.

“They’re going to come with a warrant, John. They’ll want his private case files for the last two years. And someone’s going to come question you. I don’t know if they’ll bring you in. You’re not a suspect right now because a few of the cases were before anyone knew you. It could change, I don’t know. Hell, I’m probably going to be questioned sooner or later.”

“Why is this happening so suddenly?”

“There wasn’t warning, no gradual dots to connect. Fifteen bodies showed up dead in the last twenty-four hours, all linked to Sherlock.”

“All people he helped save or criminals he helped you lot lock up. And now you’re accusing him of killing them?”

Greg held up his hands. “I’m on your side. I’m on his side. But my hands are tied on this, John.”

John glared at him for a long moment. “I need you to leave.”

Greg didn’t put up a fight. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything more, but they’re going to keep me out of the loop on this one.”

John nodded. As soon as Greg was out the door, he shut it and pulled out his mobile.

The number had shown up in his contacts sometime after his heat. He asked Sherlock about it, only to receive a scowl and a seething, “Delete it.” Sherlock refused to explain it. John didn’t delete it, seeing he had a good suspicion as to whose number it was. He called it now for the first time.

“Mr. Holmes’ office,” a secretary answered. “What is your call concerning?”

“My name’s John Watson.” He paused before adding, “It’s about Sherlock.”

“Please hold, Dr. Watson.” He expected to be transferred, but instead the secretary returned. “A car will meet you in fifteen minutes, sir. Have a good day.” She hung up before John could reply.

The car that picked John up could only be described by its featurelessness: black, expensive but not sporty, tinted windows. There was an alpha woman in the back seat, but she didn’t speak to John, entirely focused on her mobile.

The car brought John to a smaller, unobtrusive building on Whitehall. The woman led John inside and past all security checkpoints unhindered. She stopped outside one of the doors—it could have been a storage room for all its blandness—and nodded for John to go in, eyes still glued to the screen of her phone.

Past the door was a room far from bland and nondescript. It was a small room with only a handful of armchairs, but there was clearly no expense spared in the quality of rug, leather, wood fixtures, even drapes. Mycroft was already seated in one of the chairs, legs crossed, waiting patiently.

“Have a seat, John.” He gestured to the chair directly in front of him.

John didn’t like being there. He didn’t like going to Mycroft, not after their first and only meeting. Yet he hadn’t missed what Sherlock said about Mycroft and his job, even if it was often through scathing remarks. Mycroft was every bit as clever and brilliant as Sherlock, maybe more so from the way Sherlock talked about him, and his lack of title and visibility to the public as a government official only emphasised how great an influence he had, according to Sherlock.

He sat across from the man, his skin prickled with unease. “Sherlock-”

“Yes, I’m quite aware of Sherlock’s predicament.”

“What do we do?”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, and it was unnerving how very like Sherlock the motion was. “I am not in law enforcement, Dr. Watson. If my brother has gotten himself into trouble with the law-”

John slammed his fist on the arm of his chair. “He hasn’t! He’s being framed. He has to be.”

“And who do you think could successfully frame my brother?”

“I don’t know, but you can’t say you believe this, that he’s killed all these people?”

Mycroft folded his hands in his lap. “I do not concern myself with what my brother does or does not get up to.”

“Bollocks. You came interrogating me because I went into heat while living under the same roof as your brother. You keep meticulous tabs on him.”

Mycroft’s mouth tightened. “Not according to the public sphere.”

“What does that mean?”

“Do you really think it would be wise for someone in my position to divulge the extent of my resources in a public setting such as, say, a courtroom?”

“He’s your brother, and he’s being charged with murders!”

“And I have concerns for and loyalties to a much greater power.”

“Queen and country over flesh and blood? Is that what you’re telling me?”

Mycroft didn’t even nod, but the answer was clear enough in his silence.

“Sherlock was right about you.” John got to his feet and headed for the door.

“The explosion at the pool,” Mycroft said. “Did you ever read the reports?”

John paused before opening the door and walking out. When the woman asked if he wanted to be dropped back off at Baker Street, he declined and asked to be let off at Bart’s.

 

It didn’t take John long to find Molly, but he had to wait for her to finish an autopsy. He paced outside until she emerged.

“You alright, John? You seem a bit on edge.”

“You have no idea. I need your help.”

“Of course.”

“Remember the explosion Sherlock and I were caught up in, back in April?”

Molly nodded. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t. Not that I mean I don’t care, I do, it was just awful-”

“I need to see the autopsy report on the body they found.”

“The autopsy report? What for?”

“I couldn’t find it in the computers. Do you know where there might be a hard copy?”

Molly sighed and nodded. “I’ll get it for you.”

Once he had the file in hand, John found the nearest empty room and locked himself in. He read through it three times before calling Greg. “It’s Moriarty.”

“What’s Moriarty?”

“The person framing Sherlock.”

“Wasn’t Moriarty the bloke who got blown up after kidnapping you?”

“No. I mean, yes, that’s what everyone assumed. The remains didn’t have enough identifying markers or DNA, though. Even the dental records came back nil.”

“John, I know you want to prove Sherlock innocent, but going after ghosts-”

“He’s not a ghost! He’s alive, and he’s out there, and he’s framing Sherlock for murder.”

“Take it slow, John. What makes you so sure it wasn’t Moriarty caught in the blast?”

“Sherlock told me that Moriarty was a genius at orchestrating crime. That suggests he was good at manipulating people. Who’s to say the man we saw at the pool was actually him, and not a puppet? Or what if I saw the real Moriarty, and the dummy left to die was fake, acting a part, maybe hooked up to an earpiece and saying what Moriarty told him to say? I don’t know, but it was never confirmed who the body was, let alone if we even saw the real Moriarty.”

“This is a shot in the dark, John. More than that. It’s absurd.”

“I know.” John glowered at the open folder. “It’s a case absurd enough to draw Sherlock Holmes in, only he’s already in the middle of it.”

“Alright,” Greg said after a stretched out silence. “I’ll see what I can find out. Don’t put all your hopes on this, John. I still say it’s a long shot.”

“Thank you.” John hung up. He looked at the folder before stuffing it under his jacket and making a dash past Molly, who was waiting for him outside the room. He ignored her as she called after him.

 

Sherlock was held overnight, and they wouldn’t let John see him. They said it was too risky for Sherlock to have any unmonitored contact with the general population. John tried forcing his way through the officers, and was nearly arrested himself until Greg showed up. 

“You’re not doing yourself or Sherlock any favours,” Greg said. “Go home, John. I’ll make sure he knows you came by.”

John spent the night in Sherlock’s bed, face buried in Sherlock’s pillow. Their scents were so mingled by then, throughout the flat, but especially in that room, and that bed. It was hard to find something that smelled distinctly Sherlock.

Greg came by again in the morning. Sherlock was still being detained, and things were looking worse.

“He’s up for multiple counts of murder, Greg. How are they going to get worse?”

“Witnesses. Well, one witness.” Greg handed John his phone.

The man in the photo displayed sent a shock of cold into John’s gut. The hair was mussed, the face unshaven, and the clothes far less formal than the last time John had seen the man, but it was undeniably him. “Moriarty. That’s him!”

“That was taken about half an hour ago. He says his name’s Richard Brook.”

“What?”

“He says he’s an actor, out of work. According to his story, Sherlock hired him to play the role of Moriarty for what he thought at the time was some large-scale game. He was far from the scene when the explosion happened. He didn’t know about it until he read it in the news. When he read about Sherlock being charged-”

“It’s already in the news?”

“Sherlock made a bit of a scene when they—look, this guy is ready to testify against Sherlock. Is there any way you can prove he’s Moriarty?”

“Prove the guy that’s willingly come forward that he’s actually not the victim?” John stared at Greg. “How?”

“I don’t know. Would you at least be willing to talk to him? Maybe something will come out.”

John didn’t have another option. He had nothing else to go on to help Sherlock’s case, so agreed to go with Greg to speak to Moriarty—or Richard—whoever he was.

The first thing that struck John when he admitted to the safe house was how distinctly omega the man smelt. There was something off about it, and not only because of the overwhelming alpha scent that had bombarded John when they first met. He wasn’t given a chance to think about it.

Moriarty came up to John with his hands out in supplication. “Dr. Watson! I’m so glad you’re safe. I had no idea-”

“Shut up,” John snapped, stepping back. “Don’t you dare come near me.”

“Please, Dr. Watson, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought it was a game.”

“You’re lying. You set Sherlock up.”

Moriarty shook his head. “No, no. Please, you have to believe me. I didn’t know.”

John turned to Greg. “I can’t do this.”

“Alright.” Greg put a hand on his shoulder and led him out.

In front of Baker Street, John turned to the DI. “He’s an omega.”

“Yeah, so?”

“I didn’t smell it. Before, at the pool.”

Greg nodded. “I’ll see what I can find out. Try and get some rest, John.”

Rest was the last thing John wanted, or thought he was going to get. In the end, though, he worried himself into a fitful sleep.

 

John was woken in the middle of the night by the door to the flat being forced open. He had fallen asleep on the sofa and was startled, not only by the noise, but by the torches shining in his face and the officers crowding into his flat.

“What the hell? What’s going on?” John scrambled to his feet.

The lead ignored him in favour of giving his officers commands. “Check the bedroom. You two, upstairs. Sir, you need to come with us.”

“What? Why? What’s going on?”

“Fugitive, sir. You’re in danger.”

“Moriarty?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

John’s chest felt hollow. Sherlock was on the run. If he was innocent, why—only, no one seemed to think he was innocent, so why not run?

“Sir, you need to-” he was cut off by the crackling of his radio. “Go ahead.”

“Holmes has been located. He’s at the safe house.”

“Copy. What should we do with Watson and Hudson?”

“Keep them contained until this blows over.”

John gaped furiously. “Contained? Blows over?”

“I need you to remain calm, sir.”

“Bugger what you need!”

“I have my orders, sir. You need to remain here until the situation has been dealt with.”

John was fuming, but there was nothing he could do. “I want to go downstairs.”

“Sir-”

“To see my landlady. You bastards will be lucky not to have given her a heart attack. I’m a trauma surgeon, and I want to make sure she’s alright.”

The officer nodded and escorted John downstairs. They had every door guarded. John found Mrs. Hudson in her lounge, beside herself with confusion and fright, but otherwise sound. He waited with her until they received news.

 

John was too hopeful when Greg showed up half an hour after the home invasion, looking like he’d dressed in a hurry. “I’m sorry, I can’t order them away.” He gestured to the walking armoury. He squeezed Mrs. Hudson’s hand before nodded for John to follow him out of the room. In the hall, he gave John a rundown of the situation. “It’s not clear how he got out. Obviously with help. He went straight for Brook—Moriarty,” he corrected at John’s glare, “whoever he is. Sherlock knew where the safe house was. We’re suspecting inside help. Quite frankly, it was all I could do to convince them it wasn’t me. He’s locked himself in with Moriarty. The officers there were gassed before Sherlock even reached the place, so he had no trouble getting in.”

“Greg, this isn’t good.”

“I know. This isn’t what you want to hear right now, John, but you’re going to have to accept that Sherlock might not be the man you think he is.”

John stared at Greg. “You’re right, it’s not what I want to hear. And it’s not true.”

“He’s just escaped from prison, John! What innocent man would do that?”

“One who was being set up, who didn’t have any way to convince people he was innocent.”

Greg grabbed his shoulders. “Are you listening to yourself?”

John shoved his arms away. “You’ve known him longer than I have, but you’re so ready to forget everything he’s done for you, for the city.”

Greg glared at him. “He doesn’t do it for me, or for the city. He does it because it’s the only way he knows how to stay entertained.”

“If that’s what you really think, than why not believe he’s guilty from the start?” John cut off any answer Greg was going to give, “Because you don’t think that. You can’t think that. You know he’s a great man.”

“But is he a good one?”

“Yes!”

Greg shook his head.

They were interrupted by an outburst from the nearest radio. “Gunshot. I repeat, a gun has been fire. Sounds of a single gunshot just came from the roof.”

“How the bloody hell did they get up there?” Greg muttered as he pulled out his mobile. “Lestrade. What’s going on? What? Stop him! Oh god.” Greg’s hand dropped from his ear.

“What? What’s happening?”

Greg’s eyes slowly found John’s face. “He—jumped.”

“Who? Greg, who jumped?”

“Sherlock.”

“No. No, you’re wrong. It had to be Moriarty.” John reached for Greg’s mobile, but Greg hung up and pocketed it before grabbing John’s arms.

“John. John, look at me. Look at me!”

John looked up. He couldn’t bring Greg into focus. “No,” he croaked. “He didn’t—he can’t have—Sherlock.” He swayed and leaned against the wall as his body shook. “No. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. Not again. Not again.”

Only in the back of his mind did he register Greg clearing out the officers, Mrs. Hudson’s cries, the hand on his shoulder when he was found squatting on the floor, back curled against the wall, head between his knees.


	8. Chapter 8

It was January, and he wasn’t ready for his next heat. He hadn’t planned for it, hadn’t prepared in the least. He wanted to rip his body apart to avoid it. Instead, he called Clara. She was at Baker Street by tea, laden with shopping. She set down the bags inside the doorway and hugged John for a long time before putting anything away.

When it happened the first time, when John went through his first heat after Mary and felt like everything was slipping away from him, like reality itself was dissolving around him, Clara had helped him keep in touch with reality. Harry didn’t like it, said it was too perverse and Clara told her to shove it up her arse.

John showered while Clara made tea. When he emerged, Clara gave him a soft, “Don’t forget the sheets.” He turned around and went back to the bedroom to change the bedcovers.

They smelled like him. Despite being washed and in a box for seven months, they smelled like Sherlock.

Clara found him curled in the middle of an unmade bed, crying quietly. She urged him up, helped him make the bed, and guided him out to the kitchen for something to eat.

He stayed shut away in the room more than he usually did during his heats. Clara slept on the sofa, declining his offer to take the upstairs bedroom. She cooked and cleaned up for him, giving him suggestions and, when necessary, gentle commands to eat or shower or, on some occasions when he was choking on his sobs, breathe.

John had asked her about it long ago, why she was so willing and calm about helping an omega through heat. Most people cringed away from it, even some alphas, especially when they realised it wasn’t all about screwing each other’s brains out. Clara had a sister, a year younger than herself. When her sister hit puberty and started having heats, Clara had helped her. She said it was too miserable a thing to go through it alone. She could tell that much just by seeing what it did to her sister.

She didn’t treat it like a dirty secret, though she had when she was younger. Their mother found out after several heats and sent Clara away to boarding school. Clara felt ashamed and never spoke about it. When she left school and came back to her home town, her sister told her how much it had meant to her, that she didn’t have to be alone during those times. Whatever their mother’s or anyone else’s thoughts about it, Clara’s actions had been out of kindness and nothing more, and that meant the world to her sister.

Now here John was, the second person Clara had ever done this for, and now she was doing it all over again.

“Why?” he said shakily. “Why do you keep doing this? Taking care of me?”

“I care about you, Johnny.” She brushed his damp hair from his brow.

“I’m not your family. You don’t have any obligation to me.”

“If you think you’re not my family just because Harry and I split, you’re an idiot. You’ll always be family to me, John.”

He curled up tight and cried, not ready for the next wave, though it was almost upon him already.

 

When the week was over, and John was back to himself, as much as he could be, Clara offered to stay longer if he wanted her to. He declined, so she said, “Do you think it’s good for you, staying here?”

“Where else am I going to go?”

She cupped his cheek for a moment. “Take care of yourself. I’m a phone call away if you need anything.” She kissed his forehead and left.

 

John put most of his energies into work. He put in for more hours and readily picked up shifts when people called in. When he worked more hours than a full-time surgeon typically did three weeks in a row, he was offered a full-time position and annual salary. He kept himself so busy, he almost missed someone moving into 221C.

He knocked at Mrs. Hudson’s door after noticing an unfamiliar coat hanging on the banister. John was greeted by someone very much not his landlady. It was a dark-skinned, head-shaven man, a beta in his late twenties maybe. About the same age Sherlock was—would have been.

“Hullo,” John said slowly.

“Is that John?” Mrs. Hudson called from within. “Tell him to come in.”

The beta smiled and shrugged, stepping aside.

“Coat must be yours then.”

“Should I let her do the introductions?”

John smiled a little. “Yeah, she likes that sort of thing.”

In the lounge, Mrs. Hudson smiled brightly at John. “I’m sorry, dear. I would have gotten the door myself, but my hip’s acting up today. It’s the cold.”

“Don’t worry about it.” John gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, and then looked back at the beta.

“Oh, yes. This is Victor. He’s moving in downstairs.”

Victor held out his hand. “Victor Trevor. Nice to meet you.”

“John Watson.”

“Dr. John Watson,” Mrs. Hudson chimed in. “Did I tell you he’s a surgeon?”

Victor grinned. “You might have mentioned it.”

“I’m told he’s very good.”

“Oi, who told you that?”

“A wise woman doesn’t reveal her sources of gossip.” Mrs. Hudson winked at him.

“It was Molly, wasn’t it? Lies and slander, all of it.” He turned back to Victor. “Well, let me know if you need any help moving in.”

“Thanks, John.”

John hadn’t been upstairs ten minutes before Victor knocked at his door. “Taking me up on that offer already?”

“No.” Victor’s smile faltered and disappeared entirely. “John, I didn’t want to say anything to Mrs. Hudson.”

“What is it?” John’s guard started going up.

“I knew Sherlock.”

John gave him a scathing look. “Yeah, you and half of London. I’ll hand it to you, though, you’re the first who’s come straight to me with how well you knew him.”

Victor looked baffled. “What are you talking about? John, I really did know him. We went to uni together.”

“I’m tired of people telling the tabloids about how well they knew Sherlock. I don’t need it in my face.” John tried slamming the door, but Victor grabbed the edge.

“John, I didn’t know about any of that. I haven’t really been around much. Sherlock and I hadn’t kept in touch, but last June I get an e-mail from him out of nowhere.”

“Last June?”

Victor nodded. “He wrote to tell me about you.”

John let go of the door. “You… You really did know him?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.” John shook his head. “It’s been—people keep popping out of nowhere. Sometimes they go to the papers, sometimes they get hold of my e-mail. They all want to say how easy or hard to believe Sherlock was a murderer. A few deny he could ever have been a murderer. They all just want their five lines of fame.”

“I can’t imagine how that must be for you.”

“Can we do this some other time? I had a long shift.”

“Sure. But I’d like to get to know you, John.”

John nodded. He closed the door and dragged himself in a daze to the bedroom. Sherlock’s scent was fading more and more, and sometimes John had to fool himself it was there at all.

 

They had lunch in 221B the following week. It started with an awkward silence as they started to eat. Finally, Victor asked how John and Sherlock met, and John told him.

“Sounds like him,” Victor said. “Assuming people will go along with whatever he says. Bastard made it work, too.”

“Yeah. He definitely had the mysterious, standoffish allure going for him. What about you? Did you two share classes?”

“Ah, no. Mutual friend introduced us. End of our second year. We got on well for a while, but eventually we had a falling out. One too many arguments.”

“But he emailed you? About me?”

Victor shrugged. “I was as shocked as you are. I think he wanted to share it with someone, how happy you made him.”

“He does—did have his image to protect. Always putting on a front, the antagonistic genius.”

“I guess so. I mean, I knew him before all that. Or at the beginning, I’m not really sure. He put on airs back then, but, spend enough time watching him, you could start seeing through them. You didn’t necessarily have to wait for him to lift the veil. Sometimes you could figure it out for yourself. It became harder, though. He put his walls up better, sometimes with people already close to him. That’s part of the reason we stopped getting along.”

John sat back in his chair with heavy realisation. “You’re—you and him, you were together, weren’t you?”

Victor’s face flushed. “What? No! Of course not. We were close, that’s all.”

“It’s alright, Victor. He told me. He didn’t say any names, but he told me.”

Victor looked on the verge of continuing his denial, but he decided to give up. “Yeah, we were together.”

John nodded. “I think part of the reason he e-mailed you, I think he was scared. I’d figured it out for myself, mostly, and he admitted when I asked him. I didn’t take it well.”

“You’re right. He was panicked. Even though we hadn’t talked in almost five years, even though it was through e-mail, I picked up on it. He didn’t want to lose you.”

John looked down at his table. “Instead, he let me lose him.”

Victor reached out a tentative hand. “He didn’t mean-”

“You don’t know.” John pulled his hand out of reach. “I don’t even know. No one does. There’s evidence that suggests Moriarty was real after all, but it wasn’t enough, and it only came to light after he was shot. No one will ever know for certain if Sherlock was real, or if he lied to everyone and murdered dozens of people.”

“You do.”

John frowned. “I what?”

“You know, in your heart. I can tell by your voice. You didn’t doubt him once, did you? You still don’t doubt him.”

John stared at the table. There were things he doubted, but Victor was partly right: John never doubted that Moriarty was real, and Sherlock had been framed. It didn’t matter, though. It didn’t stop Sherlock from being dead. “He wasn’t a killer.”

 

A few nights after their lunch, John answered the door to find the beta holding up a pack of beers and a bag of Chinese takeaway.

“Uh, hi?”

“Game night. You watch, right? Thought we could each use the company.”

John frowned. “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but don’t you think you’re being a little forward? A lot forward actually.”

Victor lowered his hands, but he didn’t back down. “Mrs. Hudson said you don’t really go out much.”

“So?”

“So, you’re lonely.”

John bristled. “Victor, I don’t know what’s going through your head-”

“The only thing that’s going through my head is, it’s game night and I don’t fancy going to the pub or watching by myself.” He gave John a genial smile. “Friendship, John. That’s all I’m looking for.”

John relaxed his shoulders. “Alright.”

It carried on like that for a while. Victor would show up at least once a week with beer and takeaway and they would watch the game, or movies, or, eventually, simply talk. At first the conversations, when not about football or James Bond, were, of course, about Sherlock.

“Were you like this with him?” John said one evening after they had set out the takeaway boxes on the coffee table.

“Like what?”

“Decided you were going to be friends with him, whether he liked it or not?” He gave Victor a reassuring smile to let him know he wasn’t complaining.

Victor chuckled. “A bit, yeah. Irene, our mutual friend, told me he didn’t seek people out, not as friends. She said if I wanted to get to know him, I had to drop into his life and not give up when he brushed me off.”

“And me?”

Victor’s smile faltered. “You I figured out for myself.” He passed John a beer. “You shut yourself off, John. Closed yourself to the world. To friends you had, friends you might have made.”

John stared down at his bottle, brow creased. He didn’t try to argue what Victor said.

“When I was offered this job I have now, I almost turned it down. It was so soon after… I didn’t think I wanted to live and breathe in the same city where he’d been. Then I read through his emails about you. Yeah, I sought you out. Call it corny, but I figured we might be kindred spirits, might need each other.”

“You were affected that much?” John looked up. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you two hadn’t been together for a long time.”

“I know. We didn’t work out, sure, but I think part of me was always going to be in love with him.” He opened his bottle and John’s. “Will always.”

John nodded and tapped the neck of his bottle to Victor’s.

 

The months passed. John still worked hard, harder perhaps than many of his peers, but he didn’t tire himself out as much. He started going for the occasional drink with Mike, or lunch with Molly. He and Victor continued their weekly takeaway nights. He helped Mrs. Hudson in her garden when the weather warmed. He didn’t shy away when she and Victor surprised him with a cake, and invited Molly and Mike over for his birthday. There was a part of him that still felt hollow, but he was able to enjoy the day and the company.

The following week, he went into heat. Clara had texted him a few days earlier, but he had declined her offer to take care of him. He knew it would be hard, but he also knew he could handle it himself now.

It was the evening before his heat was likely to hit full force. John was sprawled naked on the sofa, a few towels folded under him, listening to music with his eyes closed when there was a knock at the door.

He stay where he was for a moment, trying to fathom who could possibly knock at the door of an omega in heat. He came to three potential answers: the police, rapists, or-

“John? It’s Victor.”

Betas. Even betas had to know, though, at this proximity, at this point in his heat. With a great effort, John stood, wrapped one of the towels under him like a loincloth, and pulled on his dressing gown. One of Sherlock’s old dressing gowns. He trudged over to the door and opened it marginally. Victor stood outside, beer and takeaway in hand. John rested his temple on the doorframe. “Sorry, Victor, but not this week. I should’ve let you known.”

“Oh, that’s you?”

“That’s me.”

“Right.” Victor shifted uneasily. “Er, anything you need?”

“No, thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Gotten through quite a few of these on my own now.” John tried to give him a wry grin, but he was too tired and his focus was being consumed by keeping his body and voice steady.

“I know I’m no alpha, but-”

“Stop.” John squeezed his eyes shut. “Stop right there.”

“Shit, I didn’t mean—I’m sorry. I’ll go.” He turned his back to John.

John took an unsteady breath and opened his eyes. “Vic.”

“Yeah?” He looked back at John, and there was an obvious hope there. John couldn’t read anything more than that, though, as far as what the hope was for.

“In a week. We’ll talk in a week.”

“Of course.” The hope didn’t fade entirely. “If you need anything—from the shops I mean-”

“I’ll text you, thanks.” John closed and latched the door, resting his head against it for a moment. When his mind began to clear up a bit, he gathered the other towels from the sofa and retreated to the bedroom.

 

It was John who showed up at Victor’s door next with beer and takeaway. Victor invited him in and they sat quiet and awkward on his sofa. Finally, John began opening containers, letting out the steam.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Okay,” Victor spoke slowly. “Not the word I was expecting.”

“You meant well.”

“I can’t say it was entirely selfless.”

“It never is.” John smiled. “Good thing you didn’t come by a day or two later. Might’ve taken you up on that offer.”

“And that’d have been… bad.”

“Yes.” John gave a little shake of his head. “You’re like him a bit, you know?”

“I know.”

John offered Victor a beer. “Clash of likeness?”

“Something like that.”

“I don’t want anything.” John looked up at Victor. “Not now, not down the road.”

“John, I wasn’t-”

“I know.” John picked up his beer and paused with the edge of the bottle at his lips. “Full disclosure, that’s all.”

They ate in silence. John didn’t eat much at all, and he let Victor keep the leftovers and extra beers. Their night ended early.


	9. Chapter 9

John took a few days off in November. He tried to get back into the habit of taking long walks, not ready to visit the grave, and not willing to sit around his flat. He almost regretted it not twenty minutes after he stepped into Regent’s and crossed paths with Greg. Since the formalities had been cleared up, John had not seen or spoken to the DI.

But he wasn’t one to play the immature adolescent and avoid the man, especially when they noticed each other at the same time. He walked to the nearest bench, and Greg joined him.

“How’ve you been?”

John wanted to snap at him, ask how Greg thinks he’s been. Instead, he reeled himself in. “Managing, I think.”

“Good. That’s good to hear.”

“Greg.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t live around here, do you?” John said it less like a question, more like he knew. He suspected.

“No.” Greg gave him a tired smile. “For a few months, I’ve been trying to decide whether or not to drop by. This is usually about as far as I get.” He reached into his coat and pulled something out. He grasped it for a moment before handing it to John. It was Sherlock’s old mobile. “Took a while before they’d release it.”

John took it carefully.

“He lived through that thing most of the time. Always his preferred method of communication.”

“That’s how we met.”

“Hm?”

“He needed to borrow a phone to send a text. It was probably to you actually. He wanted to get in to see a body at the morgue.” John put the mobile in his jacket. “Thanks.”

 

John bumped into Victor the next day on his way out. He had finally resolved on going to Sherlock’s gave. They exchanged hellos, and then John paused after only another step. He turned around and called Victor’s name before the beta went downstairs.

“I’m going to see him,” John said. “Do you- If you want to come, I wouldn’t mind the company.”

“Are you sure?”

John nodded, and Victor turned away from his door. They took a cab to the cemetery. No flowers. They simply stood there silently together, looking at the grave.

“He wasn’t my first,” John said in a quiet voice.

“I imagine not.”

John shook his head. “No, I mean—I’d had someone before, someone I care about as much as I was beginning to care about Sherlock. I was a lot younger; we started together in Sixth Form. We were together almost three years.” John looked away from the grave, but not at Victor. “She killed herself too.”

“John…”

“She was raped, and she was never able to get past the trauma. I came home one day from classes, and found her in the tub. She’d taken half her pack of sedatives and let herself fall asleep. She still had the bruises.” Inside his jacket pocket, John gripped Sherlock’s phone. “I’d wanted to marry her, to give her children. I really did, I was ready to start a family with her.”

“I’m so sorry, John.”

“It’s stupid really, but I can’t help wondering—if I’d been more reliable, if they could have trusted in me more, looked to me for support-”

Victor gripped his shoulder.

“I know it’s not my fault. It’s stupid to think these things.” John took a deep, unsteady breath. “I want to be done with it all. With my heats, with falling in love. There are days I barely want friendships. If I’m going to be here, I want to heal people and nothing else.” John pulled the phone from his pocket and turned it over in his hand. He stepped up to the grave and set it on the headstone.

 

John forwent Christmas celebrations that year. He even flat out refused to go home. He was still up late on Christmas Eve, or rather early Christmas morning by the initial two on the digital clock, and heard Victor come in singing none too soberly, and none too quietly. John smiled to himself and set his computer aside. He jogged down to the bottom of the stairs and found Victor fumbling with his keys, still humming quite loudly.

“You’re going to wake Mrs. Hudson.”

“John! Happy Christmas!”

John chuckled and walked over to help Victor with his lock. He made sure he got downstairs alright and onto his sofa at least.

Victor stopped him from leaving by grabbing his wrist. “John.”

“Hm?”

“You know what you are?”

John rolled his eyes. “What?”

“Bloody gorgeous, that’s what you are.”

John’s chest hitched. “Thanks, Vic.” He pried Victor’s hand away. “Try not to vomit when you pass out.”

Victor grabbed his arm again, further up, and yanked John onto the sofa.

“Victor!”

Victor rolled on top of him and shoved his mouth against John’s.

“Stop!” John somewhat regretted having to do it to his friend, but he nevertheless placed his knee squarely into Victor’s groin.

Victor yelped and leapt off John, stumbling back into his coffee table. His eyes watered with pain, but they also held a little more clarity for it. “Oh god, John-”

John got to his feet and flew for the stairs, ignoring Victor’s broken apologies that followed him, though the man himself didn’t.

 

John went rigid in his chair when there was a knock at his door the next day, Christmas afternoon. He stayed where he was.

“John?” Victor called through the door. “Please, John. At least let me apologise. I need to apologise.”

Reluctantly, John went and opened the door. He stood squarely in the frame, though. There was a bitter satisfaction to see Victor looking miserable, as much from his hangover as from guilt.

“I’m sorry,” Victor said. “There’s no excuse for what I did last night.”

“You’re right, there’s not.” John crossed his arms.

Victor looked at a loss before finally mumbling another apology and walking back downstairs. It wasn’t the worst Christmas John had ever had, but it was certainly in the top five.

 

John opted to work New Year’s Eve at the hospital. During the peak of the evening’s chaos, John passed by the crowded waiting room and spotted, to his dread, Victor among the faces. He made a sharp right turn and ploughed his way through the waiting room. Victor was holding a towel to his arm.

“Victor.”

The man turned from the omega he was talking to. The young woman looked a bit banged up herself, with a bright red mark on one cheek. “John?”

“What happened?”

The woman piped up, “Your boyfriend’s amazing!”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” John snapped. He ran a hand through is hair with a sigh. “Sorry. What happened, Vic?”

Again, the woman interrupted, “He saved me, that’s what happened!”

Victor winced.“Don’t make it sound so heroic.”

“Victor-”

The beta cut the woman off. “There were a couple of dicks giving her a hard time. I called 999 and stepped between them until the police showed up, that’s all.”

John frowned. “Your arm?”

“Bad scrape.” Victor peeled down the top of the towel to show John.

Bad was an understatement for the abrasion, but it didn’t look like anything more than a forceful run-in with the pavement.

“Mostly they want to keep me hanging around in case the police want to ask any more questions.”

“Right. Glad you’re okay.”

Victor looked surprised, but he nodded and thanked John. Then serendipity struck, and a nurse called John away.

 

After New Year’s, John renewed his weekly night-in with Victor. The first time he showed up at 221C with beer and takeaway, Victor couldn’t have looked more relieved. He let John in, and they watched the game like they always had.

It wasn’t until almost February that John gave in to a question that had been at the back of his mind for almost two months at that point. “At Christmas,” John said out of nowhere. Victor looked ready to crumble from re-sparked guilt. “How much of that was the alcohol?”

“What? All of it. John, I’d never do-”

“Not your actions. What you said, the—reasons behind your actions.”

“It doesn’t matter. I promise, I’d never act on them. I won’t again.”

John gave a slow nod. “So you do have feelings for me?”

Victor, to his credit, didn’t lie. “I’ve got a crush, I’ll get over it. I like having you as a friend, John.”

“Thanks.” When Victor left that evening, John told him the next week would be off, as he was due for his heat. Victor reemphasised his offer last time, about running to the shops if John needed anything. John thanked him and saw him out.

 

John was close to orgasm, the first with his vibrating, artificially knotted dildo inside him. It was somewhere between day three and four. He was so close to what he could already tell, in the back of his mind, would be a less than satisfying climax, when the battery died.

He whined, surprised and desperate. Fumbling through the slick, he grasped the base of the dildo and moved it inside himself as he gripped his prick in his other hand. Luckily, he had been close enough when the batteries died that he managed to get himself off before long, arse squeezed hard around the dildo. As soon as he had come, though, he pulled it out and went scrambling around the room, and then the rest of the flat, for spare batteries. He couldn’t find any. How could he not have kept stocked on batteries?

Panic rose in John’s chest. The worst of his heat would start by midday, and the vibrating dildo was his best bet for getting any sort of relief then. He couldn’t go out, though, not like this, certainly not at this hour. Whatever hour it was. He stumbled back to his room and pulled his mobile from the top drawer. Half three.

He wondered if he could wait until morning. Suffocating with panic and guilt, he texted Victor. _You awake?_ He sat on the edge of his bed, knees tucked up under his chin. He was fighting sleep, sleep he needed, sleep he could barely get during the height of his heat. He doubted he would receive a timely response from Victor, but he was too afraid to risk missing it to lay down and drift off for a little while. His body seemed to be winning over his mind, as it always did during heats, when John’s phone chimed.

_Everything OK?_

_I’m so sorry, but I really could use a favour._

_Anything. What’s up?_

_My batteries just died and I can’t find any spares._ John held his breath waiting for the response.

_What kind?_

_AA. Thank you._ John pressed the edge of his phone against his forehead and took a deep breath. He drifted off with his mobile next to his head, expecting to wake when it chimed. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen, and he was instead woken by a hand on his shoulder.

John woke with a fogged up head and a deep sense of panic. He registered another person in the room, and he registered he was laying naked on his bed, mid-oestrus. He scrambled for his sheets.

“Sorry, sorry. You weren’t answering your phone or the door.” Victor had turned his back to John as soon as John had woken. He held back a plastic shopping bag.

John snatched it. “Thank you. Now go. Please.”

“Of course.” Victor took two steps away. He didn’t turn around, but he said, “Are you sure you don’t need anything else, John? I don’t mean—I’m not trying to come onto you. Other stuff. A real meal?”

“Please,” John said with a sharp breath. “Leave. Now.”

Victor bobbed his head and left. John didn’t even wait to hear the flat door shut before ripping open the brand new pack of batteries and replacing the dead ones in his dildo. He had it up his arse and vibrating anew in seconds, squeezing around it with a sigh that quickly turned to moan. When he came, it was with a sob.

 

John was horrified when he began to come down from his heat. The flat was a wreck, disgusting. In his earlier panic to find batteries, he hadn’t plugged himself, and he had dripped everywhere. It was all dried now of course, but he wasn’t sure if that would make it easier or more difficult to clean up. He decided to shower before finding out.

He was filling the mop bucket when there was a knock at his door. With a frustrated sigh, he shut off the tap and readjusted Sherlock’s old dressing gown about him. It was, of course, Victor.

“Still in heat,” John muttered.

“Oh god, sorry.” Victor ran a hand down his face.

John relaxed a little out of pity. “I’m almost through it. Did you need something?”

“To check on you really.”

“Why?”

“The other night, you were acting pretty freaked.”

“Heat,” John repeated.

“No, I’ve seen omegas in heat before. I’ve been with omegas during their heat. It wasn’t just your heat.” Victor put his hands up. “If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine. As long as you’re alright.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll leave you be then.”

John closed the door and slumped against it. He no longer had the motivation or energy to clean his mess, and it would have to wait until a nap and probably another shower had been taken.

 

John had never intended to look through Sherlock’s private notebooks after his death, but, once the police had made a wreck of everything, he felt obligated to try and order it all again. He noticed years marked on the outsides of a few small black notebooks, and, from the dates, knew them to be Sherlock’s university years.

He retrieved the last of the set, which covered his final three terms according to the dates. He skimmed through the pages, seeing the Irene woman’s name a few times, but not Victor’s—not for a few months. It was December before Victor’s name showed up.

_Victor has invited me to his family’s estate for the holidays. It seems my stories of home have sparked pity in him. I have no intention to decline, but I cannot accept in full, as my parents do not deserve scorn for the wrongs done to me by their other son._

John turned back a few entries until he found a nearby reference to Irene.

_…a beta man Irene has dropped on me. I have no doubt she is to blame, as this man—Trevor—has made it clear he knows her. He refuses to leave me be, and I’m beginning to suspect he’s outright stalking me. His intentions are clearly not cruel, but he’s a rather awkward bloke. He smiles far too much, and almost always sincerely._

The rest of the entry and the next were about his courses, often citing the idiocy of his professors. Then, another about Victor.

_It’s definitely clear Victor is trying to court me. I’d be amused if it weren’t so pitiable. Irene might have been trying to do me kindness when saying I needed to find someone I could love more comfortably than her, but I’ve started to give up on notions like that—love. I suppose it would be best to let the man down gently, and sooner than later._

Then it was the pre-Christmas entry. There were no more until the next term had begun.

_I’ve completely neglected this. Unsurprising, since I tend to frequent these pages when life is less than pleasant. The past week, however, was quite pleasant. I spent New Year’s and the few days preceding and following at the Trevors’ estate. Victor kissed me at midnight, which I probably should have expected. We talked for hours. Regrettably, I admit it was mostly I who did the talking. Victor was honestly intrigued, though, by my studies, both academic and extracurricular. In fact, he was more interested in the latter. He commented on the morbidity of it, but he smiled when he said it. He really doesn’t mind. He told me I could hardly be expected to have an interest in something ordinary, being so extraordinary myself. I blushed rather extensively, and he kissed me again. It was far more… meaningful than our quick midnight exchange._

The next entry wasn’t for another week.

_We hold hands out in public. It seems rather juvenile to think this is spectacular and worthy of the written word, but the novelty has yet to wear off. He’s as comfortable with himself and who he is and where his preferences lie as Irene. Speaking of Irene, she’s been unbearably proud of herself since Vic and I started dating._

There was an entry a couple days later about a professor Sherlock tore into, and then another about Victor.

_Despite his family’s wealth, he insists he’s nothing special, not from any sort of remarkable background. He has a confidence in himself that I find endearing. Irene has it, too. They both have confidence in me as well, though there are days I still struggle with accepting it. Victor isn’t as sharp as Irene, though. He’s got a solid personality, won’t roll over, calls me out when I get into my moods and turn acerbic; but he also knows when comfort is better, when I’ll respond better to an embrace or a light kiss than getting my arse kicked. He reads people extremely well in general, but that he can read me so well is unbelievably warming. It rather suits him that he’s going into social work as a profession._

John paused there. Victor wasn’t a social worker; as far as he’d told John, Victor worked in HR for a construction company. The next entry began to reveal, to an outsider, why Sherlock and Victor clashed.

_Our first fight, followed by our first fuck. I lamentably admit Irene is spot on with “communication is key.” A misunderstanding resulted in a spat, but, once we actually started talking instead of acting defensive and slugging insults at one another, things cleared up. It left us both feeling shameful, and more than willing to forgive each other and ourselves. Things progressed from there. Again, the necessity for communication over assumption became relevant. It took most of the extent of our foreplay for me to observe Vic, like myself, was anticipating “bottoming.” I had never “topped” before. The most I had done was some rubbing against Irene and fingering. I admit “topping” was enjoyable, but I believe I have a definite preference for receiving rather than giving. I’m sure Vic does as well. I imagine it will become a matter of turn-taking._

John felt sick. Sherlock had preferred to be penetrated, not penetrate. Yet, he’d decided to be with an omega—with John—even after it became clear that John was more than a little averse to such ideas.

He closed the diary and went to put it up. A loose folded piece of paper fell into his lap. The writing on the outside was different from Sherlock’s, not to mention it had Sherlock’s name on the outside.

_I imagine you’ll find it quite cruel of me to say these things, since I was the one that put you two together. I believe you and Vic need to split, though, for the sake of both your sanities. You need someone you can care for, who will let you care for them. Not all the time, but sometimes. It needs to be someone who will look after you, too. You and Victor are both too wrapped up in yourselves, too set on being self-sufficient in every possible way. I’m sorry I didn’t realise it before playing matchmaker. Irene_

That, much to John’s grief, explained quite a bit. More than he wanted it to. He put the letter back in Sherlock’s journal and shelved it with the others.

 

John considered asking Mycroft what his opinion of Victor was. He didn’t, of course, as he couldn’t be sure how much Mycroft knew about Sherlock’s atypical preferences. He probably did know, but John wasn’t going to take a risk. He also refused to read any more in Sherlock’s journals.

Once again, someone had forcibly inserted themselves’ into John’s life without him quite realising it, and he didn’t wholly mind. That, however, gave rise to another concern. He was still debating how to go about broaching the topic a month later, in early April, when the opportunity arose unexpectedly.

As soon as the credits began on the Bond movie they’d been watching—John wasn’t sure which as he’d only half paid attention throughout—Victor flipped the telly off and turned to John. “What’s wrong?”

“Hm? Nothing.”

“You’ve been edgy all night. I’ve got a feeling I’ve done something again.”

John shook his head. “Lot on my mind, that’s all.” Victor was still giving him a sceptical look when John thought to seize the moment. “You can read people pretty well, can’t you?”

Victor was surprised, his scrutinising gaze gone. “Yeah, actually, I can.”

“Different than Sherlock could.”

Victor gave a soft smile. “Sherlock could see the facts. I’d see the people.”

John nodded. He understood that. “But it’s almost a gift, or it is. You’re really, really good at reading people.”

“Yeah?”

“Why go into HR work then? There’s got to be more lucrative and satisfying work for someone who can read people so well.”

“Are you suggesting I become a conman?” Victor mocked.

“Absolutely.” John grinned.

“I was going to do something else. Social work.”

“You’d be good at that.”

Victor shook his head. “I thought so, too. A lot of people did. Sherlock did.”

“What happened?”

“I was too empathic about it. I started to get depressed, taking people’s troubles into my own head instead of keeping myself at a distance. I couldn’t do it. It’s part of the reason I admire you.”

“Me?”

“You’re a surgeon. You see god knows how many awful things. End of the day, though, most days at least, you can put it outside of yourself.”

John grimaced. “No, it’s not like that. A lot less romantic. When I’m in the OR, I’m not dealing with a person. A life, yes, but not a person. It’s more like there’s a machine in front of me: I know what’s supposed to work, I assess what’s broken, and I fix it to the best of my ability. That’s what the body is to me in surgery.”

Victor shook his head. “I think you’re wrong.”

“Excuse me?”

“Maybe that’s what’s in the forefront of your head, but if that was completely true, you wouldn’t have the bad days, the days you come home and it has affected you.”

John didn’t say anything. There were days he lost a life, sometimes days he didn’t, when he felt more than physical and mental exhaustion by the time he reached home.

“It’s not a bad thing,” Victor said. “Being able to care from a distance, especially when it comes to strangers. Sometimes even when it comes to people you know. There’s only so much weight a person can put on their shoulders before they start to suffer from it.” Victor slapped his hands on his knees. “But there was something else you wanted to ask me about, wasn’t there?” 

“If you can read people so well, why approach me? I don’t mean Christmas. I’ve seen you give me looks, like you hope or even expect me to return the sentiment. Even though I’m made myself clear. Even though you promised you wouldn’t make any advances.” John made sure to keep any anger out of his voice, and he did his best to minimise the accusative tone.

As always, Victor answered with honesty. “I thought you had changed your mind.”

“What made you think that?”

“Because,” Victor shrugged, “you like me, too. You probably haven’t even realised it, and I know that doesn’t inherently mean you’ve changed your mind on the whole matter. It was a stupid assumption on my part. I’m sorry.”

“You think I’ve got a crush on you or something?”

“Like I said, you probably haven’t even noticed.”

John ran a hand through his hair with a long exhale. “I’ve started to.”

Victor gave a knowing nod. “Which is why you brought this up. It’s alright. I know now that you haven’t changed your mind, so I’ll stop acting like a arrogant teenager. But John—I need to say this, but I’ll only say it once.”

John grimaced, but gave him a silent go-ahead.

“What happened to Sherlock, and to the woman before him, you can’t put that on yourself. Regardless of what you choose, none of that’s on you. It’s bad luck and coincidence that you had to go through that twice, but that doesn’t mean you’re to blame. You told me once you worried that you weren’t reliable enough, that they might not have trusted you. I can’t say anything about the woman before Sherlock, but I know that’s not true when it comes to Sherlock. There was no one he trusted more than you, ever. Whatever made him jump, it wasn’t because you weren’t strong enough for him. You’re incredibly strong, John. But even the strongest person is going to snap eventually with everything you’ve put on your shoulders. So, whatever you decide for your life, give yourself a break.”

John’s knuckles were white, one hand fisted in the other. He looked up at Victor and said, voice cracked, “It’s a shame you couldn’t go into social work, or even psychiatry.” He gave Victor a broken smile.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience. I've had some things going on in the offline world, but they're getting sorted now and I can finally get back to writing. Hopefully it won't be as long a wait until the next chapter.

John had the following Sunday off, and so he invited Clara to Baker Street for tea. He didn’t even get the food on the table before the topic of Victor came up, though it did so incidentally.

“I was paying my fair and saw one hell of a looker walk out the door. Is he yours or Mrs. Hudson’s?” Clara winked.

“He lives downstairs. His name’s Victor.”

“I might have to come visit more often.”

John rolled his eyes. It was only another couple minutes before the food was done and they were sat at the table across from one another.

After all but one bite, Clara cleared her throat and said, “I saw Harry the other day.”

John’s own inner turmoil took a backseat.

“By chance, I promise. Sometimes London isn’t as big as you’d like it to be.” She gave John a pained smile. “She seemed well.”

“That’s what Mum says.”

“You don’t believe it?”

John shrugged. “Maybe she’s doing well now. But you know Harry. How many times has she fallen off the wagon?”

Clara nodded. “I just wish- Never mind. I thought I’d tell you, that I saw her.”

“Thanks.” John reached across the table and covered Clara’s hand. “You alright?”

“Yeah, fine. It was surreal is all. I’ll get past it.” She gave John a brighter smile. “Now, your turn. After all, it was you who invited me over. What’s wrong?”

John retracted his hand and straightened his back. “Why do you assume something’s wrong?”

“Johnny, I love you, but you only ever invite me out for meals when you need advice or to confide in me about something.”

John winced. “Do I?”

“You do.”

“I’m sorry. Next time, I’ll take you out with no woes to spill.”

Clara chuckled. “It’s alright, John. I don’t mind. Especially if we do this in-home more with you cooking like this.”

“I wish I had more time to.”

“Mhm. So, what’s bothering you?”

John pushed around a few pieces of food before setting his fork down and sitting back, though not at all at ease. “Do you ever wish you could turn off the part of your head that makes you fancy people? Not in the ‘wow they’re hot’ way, but the ‘I might want to be with them’ way.”

“John-”

“I don’t want to fall for anyone. I don’t want to be with anyone.” John leaned forward, setting his elbows on the table and his head between his hands, staring down at his plate without actually looking at it.

“I’ve heard that before,” Clara said in a soft voice, a mix of comforting and teasing.

John looked up at her. “You have?”

“Of course. After Mary, you said it plenty of times. You believed it too, for a long while. Then you went back to school, and your life started coming together again. It was three years before you looked at someone like that again, but you did. End of your first year back at uni, you met Roger.”

“Roger.” John lowered his arms and gave a small, fond smile. “He was sweet.”

It was Clara’s turn to put her hand on John’s. “You’ve suffered more hurt and loss than anyone should. No one can blame you for wanting to shut yourself off from any possible future hurt and loss, but that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. It’s understandable, but it’s not right.”

John’s smile was brief; he wanted to curl in on himself like a child. “I don’t want to. I can’t, Clara.”

“But there’s someone you like?”

“I’ve been trying to ignore it, tried to wait it out. He reminds me a bit of Sherlock, and I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”

“Neither, I think.”

John frowned up at her.

“Sherlock reminded you of Mary.”

“When did I say that?”

“Not directly, but you made comments here and there in your emails, things he did that surprised you, that you found endearing, maddening. Things Mary used to do.”

“So, what, they’re my type?”

Clara hummed with a thoughtful look. “In a way. I can’t speak for this third mystery man, but, as far as Mary and Sherlock go, they were both people who cared for you and would take care of you, but they also pushed you.”

“Sherlock, yeah, but Mary?”

“Who was it that convinced you to go to uni after Sixth Form, that you could do more—be more—than just be an alpha’s mate and a mother?” Clara smiled, the look pure warmth. “You were still such a kid then. Mary would have done anything for you. If you had chosen to be nothing more than mate and mother, she would have let you and done everything to make your life comfortable and pampered. But she knew there was more in you than that, and she wanted you to see that there was more to life for you if you wanted it. Which you did.”

John nodded, slowly at first. “Sherlock never treated me like a helpless omega. He wouldn’t have wanted to be with me if I was.”

“He liked that you were your own person, social norms be damned.”

“I think we both know that last bit’s an understatement.”

Clara grinned. “Well, that may be true. From everything you told me, from everything I read about you two, and from what little I saw for myself: Sherlock wanted you by his side, not merely at home, but out there, in the world, solving mysteries and catching criminals. He wanted you as an equal. So did Mary. They loved the moments they could coddle and care for you, but only as special moments, not as the day-to-day.”

After taking a minute to process Clara’s words, John sighed. “Am I an idiot? For not seeing any of this?”

“No. It’s hard, when you’re in the middle of it all. Look at me and Harry. How long was it, after it became obvious to you, until I finally got out? It works both ways, for the bad and the good.”

“I still don’t know, Clara. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to put myself out there again.”

“You’re strong enough, but that shouldn’t be why you choose to. You are your own person, John, there’s no question about that.”

“But?”

“But, when you’re with someone you love, you light up, John. There is so much life in you when there’s someone by your side, that close to your heart. You’ve been going through the motions, since Sherlock. I understand why, but it’s no good for you. When’s the last time you had a patient pull through beyond all hope, because of your work, and it made you beam? Not with pride, but relief and joy?”

John opened his mouth, but he had to close it again.

“Exactly. It’s not necessarily about falling in love, but you need to snap out of it. If dating is the way, then take it, even if it’s not the final destination.”

“How long have you been waiting to say that?”

“Months.”

John smiled. “Thanks.”

They finished their food, which had gone tepid by then, and retired to the sofa with beers in hand. John flipped on the telly and leant against Clara.

“It’s Victor, isn’t it?”

John choked on his beer and began coughing violently.

 

Unlike with Sherlock, John wasn’t eager to jump into the proverbial sack with Victor. In fact, by the end of the first month, John could probably have counted on one hand how many times they’d snogged.

He liked being held again, though, and holding someone. He enjoyed the warmth of another body against his, enjoyed falling asleep and waking up to that warmth. Part of him silently, guiltily wondered how much of it was Victor and how much of it was hunger for human contact and affection. Would he have been as contented with someone else, anyone else? He did his best to argue against such uncertainties, but he always had to inevitably shove them into the back of his mind.

The conversation began to loom, though, with John’s as of yet unmentioned next heat approaching. John stubbornly put off the talk through early July. Things had been going well, if slow, with Victor. Victor had promised John he wouldn’t push, wouldn’t rush, and he’d let John set the place. He’d been true to his word. Still, like a shy adolescent, John hadn’t moved below the waist. He’d barely moved below the shoulders, except for a few occasions of a bit too much to drink. The mornings after left him conflicted and even more unsure of himself and the whole arrangement.

They were curled together in John’s bed one Sunday morning, maybe half an hour after waking up. Eventually, Victor had to go to the loo. When he returned, John pulled him back under the covers. It was only another minute or two before Victor loosed himself from John’s arms and turned around to face him.

“I think we need to talk.”

The soporific morning dissolved. John grimaced and nodded.

“I want to be there for you, to help you through it. Whatever I can do. I’m not an alpha, but I’ve been with omegas during heats before and I-”

John pressed his fingertips to Victor’s lips. “I don’t like my first time with someone to be during a heat.” Memories of the last time he’d had this conversation flickered painfully through his head, all the more so for the sharp turn he was about to make. “And I’m not ready. I’m sorry.”

Victor took hold of John’s fingers and lowered them, holding them between their chests. “Will you ever be? Ever want to? If not, I need to know. I’m not saying I’ll instantly back out if the answer is no, but I need to know.”

John took a slow, shaky breath. “I can’t be sure, but I don’t think so. It… might be best to assume not.”

Victor nodded. John expected him to roll out of bed and walk out, regardless of what he had said. Instead, when he let go of John’s hand, he pulled their bodies together and began rubbing John’s back in a slow, soothing rhythm. John drifted off for a little while longer with a dream—or was it a memory?—of a violin playing softly through the morning.

 

At the first twinges of his heat, John gave Victor a heads up. Victor promised, without John’s prompting, to stay out of the way unless John needed something. Then, before parting, Victor made a hesitant jest about making sure he had enough batteries this time. John gave him a reassuring grin, more to approve the joke than to laugh at it. He left Victor’s and went about his preparation routine, hitting the shops first before locking himself in the flat and setting things up.

Luckily, a beta’s relatively low testosterone levels and the absence of sex meant John’s oestrus wouldn’t be much different than one when he wasn’t in a relationship. Unluckily, knowing he had someone at his beck-and-call so close by put a strain on John’s resolve the further his heat progressed.

It was day three—or night three, he wasn’t sure with the curtains shut and his senses blurred—and he was coming down from orgasm when his mobile chimed with a text. After a lethargic moment of trying to wipe his hands off on the sheets, he fumbled with his phone and rubbed his eyes to decipher to message.

The text was from Victor, and all it said was, _No._

Confused, John unlocked the screen. Before the text from Victor was one to him. _Please._ The half-memory slowly came back: one hand on his knotted dildo, the other sloppily typing out the single word. He felt hollow and sick, partly from what he had done in his stupor, partly from the realisation that he still wanted it—wanted Victor there with him. Before the haze took him over again, he managed to send back, _Thank you._

Over the course of the three days or so of his peak, John had sent Victor eight messages. Some he remembered, some he didn’t. Some only said please, some included the word _need_ and made John shudder. He never thought to thank Victor again after the first one. He felt sick, and no amount of cleaning of his own body or the flat would assuage the sensation.

Two days after his heat had completely subsided, there was a tentative knock. John was curled up on the sofa, the TV on but his mind mostly white noise. He rose and padded barefoot to the door, shoulders hunched. He let Victor in without a word.

“It’s over, right? If not, I can leave.”

“It’s over,” John murmured, not meeting Victor’s eyes.

Victor put his hands on John’s shoulders. “Are you always so down after oestrus?”

John shrugged Victor’s hands away. “I’m sorry. About what—when I—the texts.”

“Is that all?”

John looked up.

Victor’s expression was soft. “Hey, it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not fine.” John turned and paced back to the sofa. He sat down and hugged the Union Jack throw pillow to his chest.

Victor followed him. He sat close, shoulders and hips and knees brushing, but made no other move to touch John for the moment. “You weren’t in your right mind. I get it. Everything’s fine, though. Nothing happened.”

“What if it hadn’t been you? What if you were an alpha?”

“It was me and I’m not. John, you’re not the first omega to have your will snap during oestrus. At least you didn’t break down my door. That’s something.” Victor smiled.

John shook his head though. “No. I can’t do this. I can’t handle it, and it’s too much to ask of you.”

“If it were too much to ask of me, I’d let you know. And you can handle it. Or, when you can’t, I can.” Victor pried the pillow from John’s arms and cupped his hands around John’s. “Three hundred fifty-some odd days out of the year, you’ve got it covered. It’s not too much to ask that I make up the difference.”

“Three hundred fifty days out of the year, I’m in my right mind,” John muttered.

“Fine.” Victor let go of John’s hands, but only to pull out his mobile. He scrolled rapidly through his screen, John watching confused. “Eighty hours, roughly.”

“What?”

“Between your first and last texts. We can call it half. Half the time you’re in oestrus, you’re in control. I can take over the second half, and it’s still not too much to ask.” Victor set his phone on the coffee table. “It’s a relationship, John. Burdens are shared, split fifty-fifty when they can be. Here, they can be. Stop beating yourself up about this.”

After a moment, John nodded and his shoulders relaxed. Victor gathered him up and hugged him tight, kissing the top of his head.


	11. Chapter 11

John invited Clara round in September, partly to keep his promise that the next invite would be a desperate call for help, and partly to introduce her to Victor. She came by early, taking a half day from work, so she and John had plenty of time to catch up before Victor came home.

“I was disgusted with myself,” John said, filling Clara in about what transpired during his last heat. “I felt, I don’t know, a bit inhuman? And he just sat there reasoning it all out.”

“A looker and a gentleman. How do you always strike gold?”

John rolled his eyes. “Sherlock took care of me during my heat, but he wasn’t a gentleman. Besides, I’ve dated my share of assholes. Remember Lauren?”

“Mhm. I wanted to punch her. More than once.”

“I should have let you.” They carried on chatting, mostly moving away from a topic so closely related to Sherlock, and went about fixing tea.

Victor knocked when he arrived, though John had insisted a few weeks ago that he no longer had to. He was welcome anytime, as long as the door was unlocked. John called for him to just come in. Before he had a chance to properly introduce the two, Clara stated, “He wears a suit.” She looked at John. “You didn’t tell me he wears a suit.”

John rolled his eyes. “Victor, Clara. Clara, Victor.”

They greeted each other, Victor and John exchanged a brief hello kiss, Clara made a cheeky comment, and they began to settle into the evening.

It was always a game of roulette with Clara as to how forward and blunt she would get, and it rarely had anything to do with how much alcohol she consumed. She could remain tight-lipped when tipsy and become embarrassingly—for others—loose-tongued while completely sober. The opposite was just as possible.

So it was less of a surprise and more a jolt in conversation when Clara looked straight at Victor and said, “So you and Sherlock dated back in the day?”

Victor gave a tentative look to John, who nodded his OK on the topic. “Yeah, back at uni.”

“John was completely scandalised to find out about Sherlock’s deviant ways.” From there, Clara spent the next good while teasing John about this or that, and any discomfort faded.

It was late when John saw Clara off. “You sure you don’t want to stay over? Extra bed upstairs.”

Clara only smiled and kissed John’s cheek. Before she pulled away, she whispered, “If you were going to fall in love again, this is a good one to do it with.”

“I know,” John whispered back. They hugged and Clara climbed into her cab.

Back upstairs, Victor was picking up from dinner. John pulled him away and back to the sofa.

“Have I told you that you look good in a suit?”

“Once or twice.” Victor smirked.

John stood, but only long enough to face Victor before straddling his lap. He pressed his palms into Victor’s shoulders and kissed him hard. Victor’s hands went instantly to John’s hips as he kissed back. When John began unbuttoning Victor’s shirt, though, Victor pulled away.

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Not enough to impair my judgement.” John leaned forward, but Victor stopped him. John sighed and sat back. “Half a glass with dinner, half a glass while we were talking out here. I don’t drink a lot around Clara.” He ran his hand across Victor’s scalp. “I’m sober. I want this.”

There was still reluctance in Victor’s expression. He gave John a gentle but definite push away.

John climbed off Victor’s lap and sat hunched beside him. “I thought you wanted-”

“I do. Of course I do.” Victor cupped John’s cheek in his hand. “I want you to be sure you do.”

John covered Victor’s hand with his. “Vic.”

“I don’t want you acting on the heat of the moment only to beat yourself up about it the next day. Think on it first. At least for a day.”

John nodded. 

Victor kissed him with frustrating chasteness. 

John didn’t confront him when Victor didn’t stay over, though he was tempted to. He finished cleaning up from dinner and went to bed. He didn’t try to sleep right away, though. After several thoughtful minutes, he went to his closet and pulled down his oestrus box. He took out one of his smaller dildos and brought it back to his bed, where he stripped and sat cross-legged.

He stared at the dildo in his hands, feeling ridiculous and lewd. However, parts of his body had not taken the cue when Victor said no, and John didn’t have any lube handy. He brought the dildo to his lips and gradually pushed it into his mouth. He tried to clear his mind of how embarrassed he felt. The space he began to empty, though, filled with other thoughts. Helpful thoughts. Thoughts of Victor, his lips and his hands. His body pressed against John’s. Finally, John allowed himself to imagine what Victor’s cock might be like, how it might feel and taste. His inhibitions slipped away, and he sucked a little harder at the silicone in his mouth.

With the dildo coated in his own saliva, John sucked briefly but thoroughly on two of his fingers. He laid down on his side and reached between his thighs. He put the dildo back in his mouth, to keep it from drying out, or so he told himself. In truth, the oral fixation was more satisfying than John could have anticipated.

He lay on his side, stretching himself and sucking on silicone, trying not to consciously acknowledge that this was by far the most perverted thing he had ever done. In the past, there had always been lube at hand when he got horny. In the past, before Sherlock, he never would have considered fellatio as enjoyable to perform, as satisfying, especially on a dildo.

By the time he finally began pressing the dildo inside himself, he had allowed himself to fall completely to fantasy, to thoughts of Victor inside him, holding him. It had been a long time since John had gotten off for the sake of pleasure, rather than scratching the intolerable and often painful itch that came with his heats. So long, that a few rubs over the head of his small prick, while moving the dildo inside him, with images of Victor on the back of his eyelids, and he climaxed.

He tried to drink in the feeling as long as possible, but all too soon lucidity came back to him. Though physically satisfied, his mind began stirring uncomfortably. He distracted himself by going to the loo and rinsing off the dildo. He put it in the tub to wash more thoroughly when he showered in the morning. He wiped away what little fluid had already made it down his colon. He washed his hands and went back to his room, where he put on his pyjamas and curled up under the covers.

It was stupid. He was thirty-three and a doctor. Why did he feel so ill at ease about what he had just done? He’d masturbated in the past, outside of oestrus. Maybe it was best that Victor had made John think on things before having sex.

 

John expected to feel worse, psychologically, in the morning. Instead, he felt calm. Thinking back he felt foolish, not about what he’d done, but for being as self-conscious as he had been. He reasoned it out, that it was understandable all things considered. But now he felt more relaxed about it and more sure. He still wanted Victor.

At the hospital, thoughts of Victor took a backseat to his work, as they always did. It was any other day. Even when Victor texted him a little after five, John’s mind didn’t immediately go to thoughts of where the night might—would hopefully—lead. 

_My night to cook._

John smiled. Whenever Victor offered to “cook”, it always meant takeaway. It wasn’t that Victor was a bad cook, only he didn’t like cooking. That evening was no different. Victor came upstairs after John texted him he was home and they ordered their dinner. Victor paid.

Neither of them brought up the previous night’s conversation, at least not right away. John had a feeling it was for different reasons, though. For his part, he was perfectly content snuggled up with Victor watching telly and eating curry. The serenity he had woken with had stayed with him throughout the day. For the first time since he admitted his feelings for Victor to himself, he was comfortable with them and with what he wanted. He didn’t feel pressured or rushed to convince himself and anyone else.

John waited until they had finished eating, and until Victor was taking a drink, to ask, “Have you ever fantasised about me before?”

Victor coughed into his glass and hurried to put it down. He gave John a bemused look.

“Well?”

“Is this one of those questions where I’m fucked regardless of how I answer?”

John grinned. “No. Pure curiosity, promise.”

“Alright, if you promise. Yes, I have.”

“I did about you last night. At first, I was almost mortified. Stupid, I know. This morning, though, it felt like things settled into place finally. For me.” John closed his eyes and leaned against Victor. “I don’t think I realised how much I was pushing myself away, along with everyone else.”

Victor didn’t press him into talking more. He combed his fingers repeatedly through John’s hair, and for several minutes they sat like that, quiet and content.

“I’m glad you made me think about things, before rushing headlong into it. I guess I was acting a bit adolescent last night.”

“It’s fine.”

John turned his head up and smiled. “I still want to have sex with you.”

Victor made a valiant effort of trying to hide his relief and excitement, but it was still evident.

John laughed and leaned up to kiss him. Tonight, Victor returned it without reservation. “Mm, there’s one thing I forgot about. I don’t have any lube or condoms.”

“I do.”

“Might want to get it before I muss you too much and you have to do the walk of shame past Mrs. Hudson.”

Victor chuckled. He kissed John once more before stepping out.

John brought the remnants of their supper to the kitchen, setting everything on the counter to clean up later. He went to the bedroom and stretched out in the middle, folding his arms under his head. He grinned stupidly up at the ceiling.

It was several minutes before the flat door open and shut, and John could hear Victor’s footsteps down the hall. “Sorry,” he said as he came into the room. “Waylaid by Mrs. Hudson.”

John turned his head toward Victor. “S’fine.”

Victor dropped the lube and condoms on the bedside table. “You’re still dressed,” he teased.

“I’m in no rush.”

“Good.” Victor kneeled on the edge of the mattress to bend over John and kissed him.

For a moment, John lay as he was, kissing back. Then he pulled his arms out from under his head and wrapped them around Victor’s back, dragging the beta over and down on top of him. John was so thoroughly enjoying the lengthy snogging session that it took him quite a bit to think that maybe Victor was waiting for some signal that it was safe to move forward, despite John’s earlier assurance. John lowered his hands to Victor’s trousers and slipped his fingertips below the waistband.

Victor’s own fingers went almost instantly to John’s trousers, flicking open belt, button, and zip with haste.

John chuckled against Victor’s mouth and pushed his head back. “You don’t have to wait for me to approve every next step.” He ran his fingers along Victor’s head. It felt freshly shaven, and John wondered if Victor hadn’t had at least some expectations about tonight.

“I want to be sure.”

“You want to be sure that I’m sure.”

Victor gave a bit of a sheepish nod.

“I’m sure.” John pulled Victor’s head down to kiss it. “I’m really sure.” He let go and spread his arms out. “I’m all yours.”

From there, it was the gradual discarding of shirts, vests, trousers, socks, and finally pants. “Mm, sorry. I’m no alpha.”

John gave Victor’s cock a slow, light stroke. “I don’t want an alpha; I want you.”

A tremor went through Victor’s body. He took John’s hands and locked their fingers together, pushing them over John’s head as he bent down to kiss him. He moved his kisses downward, spending ample time on John’s neck and shoulders and clavicle. He pulled his hands away from John’s to caress his hips as his lips continued downward, across every centimetre of his torso.

John’s breathing grew shallow. He had had attentive lovers before; Sherlock especially had practically worshiped John’s body at times. But what Victor was doing went beyond mere body worship. He was putting every one of John’s senses and nerves on edge, his entire body anticipating the next step. He was taking the time to do with his mouth and hands what an alpha could do easily with their pheromones, from simple arousal itself. Sherlock had never been so-

With a sharp intake of breath, John went unwillingly and unexpectedly rigid. It was not lost on Victor, who stopped his ministrations and looked at John’s face. “What’s wrong?”

John shook his head. “Nothing,” he said unconvincingly. He failed to meet Victor’s eyes, so he sought out his hand.

Victor moved back up the bed and lay next to him. “Sherlock,” he said. His voice was calm, not at all disappointed or annoyed.

“I-”

“It’s alright.” Victor ran his fingers through John’s hair. “It makes sense that you might think of him, especially during our first time. I have.”

John turned his head and finally looked into Victor’s eyes. “You have?”

“Of course.”

“You’re not—You’re not comparing, right? I don’t want you to think I am. I’m not, it’s not-”

Victor smiled. “I know. He was the last person you were with, and we’ve both been with him. Plus, according to what you’ve told me, I was the last person he was with before he found you.” Victor rested his hand on the side of John’s head. “Do you want to stop for now?”

“No. Unless you do.”

“I’m game if you are. Just, y’know, I’d appreciate if you didn’t call out his name when I make you come.”

It was odd, but the jest lightened John’s chest. He grinned. “I’ll do my best.”

The results of Victor’s work had dulled a little, but it didn’t take long until John was back on the precipice. Soon Victor’s fingers began on John’s hole, expertly so. John was already digging his heels into the bed when Victor finally penetrated him with his cock.

A beta’s cock couldn’t reach very far into a male omega’s internal vagina, but that was no hindrance to Victor. He hitched John’s hips up to get as much depth as he could. His thrusts were shallow, but he made sure each one counted in giving John pleasure. Angle, pressure, speed—everything was perfect. John was panting, moaning, so close. He dugs his fingers into Victor’s shoulders. “Vic!” he managed to gasp a few times, but he could never make it past the first syllable. Victor pushed down to kiss John’s mouth. At the same time, he snuck his hand between them and gave John’s prick a few firm rubs.

John moaned or screamed—he wasn’t sure—into Victor’s mouth as his entire body seized around Victor. Victor groaned into his mouth and started thrusting harder and faster until he came.

It was one of the most intense orgasms John had ever had outside of oestrus and, outside of oestrus, it left him plenty satisfied. Eventually he let go of Victor’s shoulders and his limbs fell heavy onto the bed.

Victor kissed the corner of his mouth a few times. “Good?”

John pried his eyes open and was met with a cheeky grin. “Y’think?”

After a soft chuckle and another kiss, Victor pulled out. Once he tossed the condom in the bin, John tugged him close and nestled against his chest. Victor hummed contentedly. “I think you bruised my shoulders.”

“Big baby,” John murmured.

“I wasn’t complaining.”

John smiled against Victor’s chest. Neither of them fell asleep right away. Victor alternated between stroking John’s hair and his back and hip. “Thank you,” John said.

“Uh, you’re welcome?”

“I mean for earlier.” John tilted his head up. “For understanding.”

“Oh. Well, it’d be hypocritical of me if I’d gotten upset.” Victor kissed John’s brow. “Sherlock is something we have between us, something our pasts share, but that doesn’t mean his memory has to come between us.”

“That’s… Yeah, I like that.” He shifted up until his head was on a pillow level with Victor’s. “Can I tell you something, about my first time with him? Not comparing, promise.”

“Sure.”

“He’d never been with an omega before, right? He spent so long stretching me, later I realised he was looking for a prostate.”

Victor sputtered into laughter, his entire body shaking John’s. “That idiot!”

John smiled. “Yeah, he really could be dim.”

“You know, I was the first person he topped. He didn’t know what to do with himself.”

“I believe it.”

Victor, his grin subdued, hugged John closer. “This is good.”

“Yeah.” John pressed his forehead against Victor’s. “It is, isn’t it?”

 

They visited Sherlock’s grave together again that November, this time holding hands. After a few silent minutes, John asked for a moment alone. Victor kissed his cheek and squeezed his hand before going back toward the street.

John took a deep breath and stuffed his hands into his coat. “If there’s an afterlife, and you see this—us—I hope you can be happy. For us. I still love you. I’ll always love you. I think Vic does, too. You’re still part of us. Maybe that makes you part of what we have. Yeah, I think it does. I’m rambling now, aren’t I? Thing is, I think I’m falling in love with him. I didn’t think I could fall in love again after you, but I didn’t think I could fall in love again after Mary either. Point is, if there’s an afterlife and you have any sway up there, watch out for him, please. I’m still not wholly convinced I’m bad luck to the people I love, so I need you to make sure he’s OK.” John kissed his fingertips and pressed them to the headstone. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”


	12. Chapter 12

After a Christmas Eve lunch at his mother’s that John felt lasted far longer than it ought to have, he and Victor spent their holiday at the Trevor estate in Norfolk. Despite the grandeur of the old money, Victor’s parents were rather down-to-earth, and they took to John like he was already their own son. Even Victor’s sister, who dressed the role to a greater extent than the rest of the family, had an easygoing attitude. It didn’t take John long to discover the entire family contested traditional values.

Gloria Trevor-Scott arrived with her wife on Christmas morning, after Victor and John had already settled in. Victor had told John a little about his younger sister, that she was a lawyer and fast on her way to following their mother’s footsteps to become a magistrate, sooner or later. If it wasn’t for the undeniable resemblance between Victor and his sister, though, John would not have picked her out of the pair. Gloria was at least six months pregnant.

Later, while Mr. Trevor and Gloria’s wife were busy cooking what smelt like the best Christmas dinner John would probably ever sample, Gloria sat next to the recently vacated seat beside John in the parlour; Victor had just left to use to loo.

John smiled at her. “How far along are you?”

“Six and a half months. You didn’t expect me to be an omega, did you?” She grinned at him. It was very like Victor’s.

“That obvious?”

“I think a deer looks less surprised by headlights. I’m used to it, though.” She leaned forward and motioned to the throw pillow on John’s other side. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” After John helped her with the pillow, he said tentatively, “Your family’s something.”

“Oh, we’re rebels alright. Mum refused to let Dad take her name when they married. She said, if the place was going to stay in his family, they ought to keep the name. From what they tell me and Vic, Gran and Pops would have been scandalised if they weren’t already gone.”

“So the rebellion isn’t generations old?”

“Not yet.” Gloria patted her bump. “Give it a few more decades, though.”

“Hopefully this sort of thinking won’t be considered rebellious in a few decades.”

“Ah, we can only hope.” Gloria’s tone shifted when she said, “John, can I broach a potentially sensitive topic?”

“Sherlock?” John gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s fine.”

“So you did know him?”

“Yeah. We were together.”

“He was such a peculiar person when I met him.”

“He was always peculiar,” John chuckled.

“At times, he could have the greatest confidence in himself. But more than once I saw through the mask. Never when I was supposed to, of course. I was quite the nosy little sister. Still am I guess.”

At the idea of a young Sherlock, a Sherlock with uncertainties and self-doubt, John’s smile faltered. It suddenly made the idea of his suicide all the more believable, despite the two years that had passed.

“Oh dear. I’ve said something.”

“It’s fine. I knew Sherlock as a different person, I think.”

“He was a good man, in his own way.”

John nodded. “Victor’s a good man, too.”

“So are you it seems.” Gloria smiled and gave John a kiss on his cheek. Without another word between them, she hoisted herself up and went over to chat with her mother. A moment later, Victor returned and dropped onto the sofa beside John.

“What were you two talking about?”

John leant against Victor, who immediately put his arm around him. “You of course.”

“Of course,” Victor chuckled.

 

John had to return to London after Boxing Day. Before he left the Trevor estate, he handed Victor a small, unwrapped box. Inside was a key to 221B. Victor looked at him without surety of what to do or say.

“Think about it,” John said, closing Victor’s hand around the key.

“About what exactly?”

“Moving in with me. And if you don’t want to, now or ever, I still want you to have this. Unlocked or locked, I want you to always have a way in.”

Victor wrapped his empty hand around the back of John’s neck and kissed him. Then he hugged him close and whispered into his hair, “Thank you.”

John left Norfolk with a feeling in his chest and gut that didn’t dissipate the entire journey home.

 

They spent New Year’s Eve and most of New Year’s Day in bed together. For Valentine’s, they went out to eat with thousands of other couples in the city. John brought Victor to Angelo’s, for the first time. Upon seeing John, Angelo sat him and Victor at once at the old window table. John, unintentionally, end up telling Victor about all the times he and Sherlock had eaten there. It was surprisingly not awkward, and Victor listened with genuine interest, smiling as John talked more than ate. They left without paying, despite John and Victor’s insistence. Angelo gave John a warm smile and a hug and whispered in his ear that Sherlock would be happy for him before ushering them both out the door and homeward.

After the fourteenth, they began emptying 221C. Mrs. Hudson made a fuss about having to find a new tenant for a basement flat and how impossible it was, but it was obvious she was teasing and truly happy for them. She made them a big supper on the last moving day.

John collapsed onto the sofa after the meal. “I know how many muscles are in the legs, but I have never felt all of them before.”

“You know what would help?”

“Hm?”

“A nice hot bath.”

John smiled. “Is that an invitation?”

“Well I’m taking one, and I don’t know if there will be enough hot water for a second right after.”

“Better be economical about it then.”

Victor kissed John before going to start the bath.

Despite himself, John began drifting off on the sofa. He was interrupted by Mrs. Hudson knocking at the door. With a grunt, John pushed himself up from the sofa and answered it.

“Hope I haven’t disturbed you boys.”

“Not at all. Everything alright?”

“Oh yes. This came for you.” She handed John a large, thickly padded envelope. “Hand-delivered, though it would have fit through the slot. Bit late for deliveries.”

“It is,” John murmured, turning the package over in his hand. There was neither a return address nor postage. The address only read John’s name and the street address. No post code or city. “Do you know who delivered it?”

“Didn’t look closely. Sorry, love.”

“It’s alright. Thanks.”

“Goodnight, dear.”

“Night.” John locked the door after Mrs. Hudson and went to the desk for a pair of scissors.

“Who was it?” Victor re-emerged from the back hall.

“Mrs. Hudson. Package came for me.”

“This late?”

John shrugged and cut open the envelope. The contents slipped out into his hand.

“What is it?”

John didn’t answer right away. His brain hadn’t even registered Victor’s words. It wasn’t until Victor walked over and put a hand on John’s shoulder that John reacted.

“A phone?”

“Yeah,” John said, his voice quiet. “Sherlock’s.”

“What?”

“Greg—Lestrade, the detective inspector, he gave it to me some time after Sherlock’s… I’d left it on his tombstone, the first time we went.”

“Someone probably thought it was lost and returned it.”

“Almost eighteen months later?” John looked up at Victor.

“Well, maybe not right away. Who knows where it’s been.”

John turned the phone over in his hand. “Yeah, probably.” He opened the desk drawer and set it inside.

“Come on.” Victor took John’s hand and led him back to the bathroom. Soon the phone slipped form John’s mind.

 

“I’ve never done this before,” John told Victor over dinner in the first week of March. “Gone through my heat with a beta. I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but-”

“But I don’t have a knot.” Victor covered John’s hand and squeezed it. “I know. I’ve been with omegas in oestrus before.”

“You have?”

“Yeah, two. Twice with one.”

“Oh.”

“Does that bother you?”

John shook his head. “I didn’t expect it.”

“I know I can’t give you what you need during oestrus, not with my body, but I can be there for you, John. I can still help.” Victor took both his hands in his and kissed John’s fingertips.

Four days later, John was in the no-lights stage, and Victor called in for a week off work.

“They let you do that?” John murmured into his pillow after Victor was off the phone.

“Some companies do. I don’t take time off a lot, so they’ll give it to me.”

“Mm, thank you.”

Victor kissed the back of John’s shoulder and sat in bed with his back to the headboard.

 

Victor was in the shower when the need to be filled finally won out. John dug out one of his smaller dildos—in fact, the same dildo he had used the first night he’d fantasised about Victor—and pushed it slowly past the relaxed muscles and into his slick colon. With a muffled moan into his pillow, he squeezed around the toy.

“Hey, hey.” He felt a hand cover his. “You should have called me.”

“S’fine,” John mumbled.

“Let me.”

John let go of the dildo and gripped Victor’s shoulder. Victor turned his head and kissed John’s hand. He pulled the dildo to the edge of John’s internal vagina and thrust it back in. John gasped.

“Alright?”

John nodded and dug his fingers into Victor’s shoulder. “Again.”

Victor obliged, repeatedly, until John came, body clenched and jaw tight. Victor waited a minute before sliding the toy out and soothing John’s body. He gently unfolded John’s limbs and began rubbing his back.

At the next wave, Victor asked if John wanted him instead of the dildo. “So soon?” John frowned up at Victor, trying not to squirm restlessly.

“My cock’s not going to do anything for you at your peak.”

John nodded and spread his legs.

 

On the third morning, it became apparent that Victor’s cock was quickly losing effectiveness for John’s needs. John thought he was also losing stamina, but he couldn’t be sure. After eating half a piece of toast and downing some water, John looked apologetically at Victor. Before he could say a word, Victor nodded. “I know. It’s fine. There’re two more thing we could try, if you’re up for it. It’s fine if you’re not.”

“What?”

“Well, the first would be without a condom. In the past, skin-to-skin has helped my partners.”

John considered this, as thoroughly as his oestrus-wrecked mind could manage. He’d never had unprotected sex, even with Mary. But he and Victor had been sleeping together for six months, dating for longer than that. He trusted Victor to be clean. And, with Victor being a beta and so inherently sterile, pregnancy wasn’t a risk. “Alright. We can try it. What’s the other?”

Victor took a deep breath before getting it out, “Double penetration. My cock and a dildo.”

It was hard for John to flush anymore than he was during his heats, but that definitely did it. “Uhm.”

“It’s alright. Just a suggestion.” Victor kissed John’s cheek.

“I mean, we can try. I… I don’t know if I’ll like it.”

“If not, you give the word and we’re done with the attempt.”

John nodded. “But definitely the first one.”

Victor smiled. He kissed John deeply, at the same time dragging him down the bed and onto his back. He worked himself hard in his hand before pushing into John.

John breathed in sharply. It was certainly something new, the feeling of flesh inside flesh without anything between. New and wonderful. He wrapped his legs around Victor and pulled him deeper, until Victor’s balls were pressed against his arse. He didn’t allow Victor more than shallow thrusts, but Victor put force behind each one to make them count.

“I’m sorry,” Victor panted over John. “I have to-”

“Roll us over.”

With no small amount of effort, Victor managed to switch their positions without slipping out.

John splayed his hands on Victor’s chest. “If it—If I hurt you—stop me.”

Victor nodded and held onto John’s hips.

John moved his hands to Victor’s wrists, needlessly holding them in place. He rocked himself on Victor’s cock, tightening every muscle in his body, willing his orgasm before Victor’s. It was no use.

“John!” Victor’s fingers sunk into John’s hips and he jerked up, coming with surprising force considering how many times he had in the last twenty-four hours.

What John had not anticipated was the feel of Victor’s come inside him, filling him. That was an entirely new experience that managed to get him over the edge.

He collapsed on Victor’s chest, less out of exhaustion than from shock. Victor folded his arms over John’s back. “You’re amazing.”

John couldn’t even mumble a response.

 

They decided to wait until John’s peak to try double penetration, though Victor wasn’t keen on doing it with John so out of it. John assured him the fact that he cared like that was what mattered and why he trusted Victor to read any sign of discomfort or pain.

John couldn’t remember much of the first time, only that it was more gratifying than his large knotted vibrating dildo, if not quite an actual alpha’s knot. He didn’t mention the latter to Victor.

He did remember some of the successive times, each with more clarity as he began coming down. He remembered Victor entering him first before working half a dildo in under his own cock. This meant it was Victor who penetrated John deepest; it meant getting filled with hot ejaculate each time Victor came.

They still had to alternate with John’s knotted dildo, as Victor’s body simply couldn’t take the strain. By the time John could move down from that, Victor reluctantly admitted his cock was out of commission for the rest of John’s heat. John was down enough to giggle at Victor’s word choice, rather than feel disgruntled at the announcement.

Victor’s hands, however, remained very much in use, and he continued to bring John to orgasm with dildos and fingers inside him, and his mouth on the rest of him.

John woke from one of his post-orgasm naps needing to piss. He walked bare-arsed to the loo. The door was open and the light on. It took John a moment for his head to defog enough to register what he was seeing.

Victor was in the empty tub. His eyes were closed, which explained why he didn’t stop what he was doing the second John was on the threshold. He had his feet up and braced on the edge of the tub. One hand was on his cock; the other was out of sight. John took a silent step forward, and then another. He pushed himself onto his tiptoes and peered into the tub. Victor’s other hand was on the end of a dildo. One of John’s dildos. The dildo he had just used on John, still slick with John’s natural lubricant. Victor was thrusting the dildo inside himself.

John stepped back to the threshold, but he couldn’t quite make it back to the bedroom. He watched Victor bring himself off. Only when Victor’s body began to relax in the tub did John turn and hurry silently back to bed.

 

John couldn’t scrub the image from his mind. He half-wished he’d still been too deep in oestrus to have remembered it, but that wasn’t the case. After the sheets were washed and put up with his toys—John noted they were all there—after Victor went back to work, John still couldn’t shake the memory. Two days later, Victor caught him brooding in the bedroom after work.

“What’s wrong?”

John looked up. He stared at Victor, his mind not quite finished processing. “I saw you.”

Victor shucked his jacket and sat next to John. “Saw me where?”

John swallowed. “In the tub. During my heat. I went to use the loo and you were there. I saw…”

“Oh.” Victor clasped his hands between his knees.

John got up. Victor grabbed his hand at once. “I’ll be right back,” John said, his voice hollow. Victor let him go. John returned with Sherlock’s diary from uni, open to the entry about the first time Sherlock and Victor had slept together. As Victor read, his expression fell.

He closed the book and put it on the end table. “That was a long time ago, John.”

John sat on the edge of the bed. “But you like it, being penetrated.”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Not if you didn’t want to, which you obviously don’t.”

“I used to worry that Sherlock would ask me. I didn’t even see that until after he was gone.” He gestured to the diary. “And things have been going so well with us, I forgot about it. Or ignored it.”

“John-”

“Have you been—topped—by omegas before?”

“Yes, but only when they wanted to. I would never ask you-”

“I can’t give you that. I don’t think so. Maybe I’m a prude, stupid and close-minded-”

Victor grabbed John’s shoulders and turned him enough to look him in the eye. “John, I don’t want that from you. You don’t want it, so I don’t want to ask it of you. It’s that simple. It doesn’t make you stupid or close-minded. You’re not comfortable with it, and that’s fine. I’m sorry you had to see me like that, and I shouldn’t have tried to hide it from you. Yes, sometimes I like the feeling of something inside me, but I don’t need it, certainly not from you.”

“But you want-”

“So what? There are countless couples whose sexual desires don’t always match up precisely, where one has desires that the other doesn’t fulfil. That doesn’t mean they don’t work as couples. That doesn’t make the relationship any less of a partnership. You’re not here to give me what I want. We’re in this together, remember? It’s about making each other happy, not about being selfish with what we want.”

“But-”

“A few days ago, I told you I needed the break, that I was too sore. You didn’t ask that I sacrifice own comfort for your pleasure. This is the same.”

“Then why?” John glared at Victor, an anger he hadn’t been aware of no longer suppressed.

It took Victor a moment to figure out what John was asking: why was he masturbating, pleasuring himself, while John was still miserable with biologic want and need. “I wasn’t lying to you, John. I was sore. I was also still incredibly horny, especially getting you off again and again. I wanted to be inside you, but I could barely wank I was too sore. That’s half the reason I did what I did, not because I have some insatiable desire to be fucked, but I was hard and I hurt too much to wank properly.”

John eased back a little.

“Believe me, John, I wanted to be able to give you what you needed. But I wouldn’t have been able to hide the fact that I hurt, and I didn’t want you feeling guilty because of it.”

John lowered his gaze to his hands, which were clenched on his knees. This was Sherlock all over again: John jumping the gun in his ignorance. “I’m sorry.”

Victor lifted John’s chin. “Don’t be. I should have said something.”

“But…”

“What?”

“You didn’t wash it.”

“Well, I am a kinky son of a bitch, remember?”

John smiled. He leant over and kissed Victor. “Thank you, for explaining it.”

“I should have earlier, and I’m sorry you had to find out like that.”

John nuzzled into Victor’s neck. “Maybe it was the heat, but it was actually kind of hot.”

Victor hesitated before laughing. “You keep surprising me, John Watson.”

 

Victor’s birthday was in April. After several lunches with Clara, and a furtive and embarrassing trip to Soho, John gave Victor a gift a week early. When Victor asked why, John only said, “I’m sure as hell not giving this to you in front of a bunch of people.”

Further intrigued, Victor tore off the wrapping. His excitement vanished at the sight of the remote-controlled vibrator. “John.” He pushed the package at John. “I can’t ask this of you.”

John pushed it back toward Victor. “I’ve thought about it, a lot. I don’t feel comfortable with the idea of doing it, but that doesn’t mean you can’t still enjoy it. I don’t mind that part.”

Victor frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. Besides, with this,” John pointed to the remote control, “I can still take part.” He grinned, and Victor slowly smiled.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“Probably not.” John pulled Victor into a hungry, open-mouthed kiss.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: I've updated the tags. Not all of the new tags have to do with this chapter (in fact, most don't). But just a heads up!

It was the night of John’s birthday, an hour after everyone had left, and Victor had had his mouth around John’s prick for an insanely long time. Finally, between moans, John said, “If you don’t put something in me soon.”

Victor looked up and smiled around the prick in his mouth.

“Oh god.” John dropped his head onto the pillow. “You’re trying to bring me off without—no one has ever been able to make me orgasm without something inside me.”

Victor hummed and John’s legs squirmed on either side of his head.

A few more minutes passed before John gasped, “Vic, I can’t. Please, oh god. Please just-”

One finger pressed against—not even in—John’s hole as Victor’s tongue pressed hard against his prick and he sucked. John’s back arched and he came, hands scrabbling as Victor’s scalp. That was one downside of having a boyfriend who liked to shave his head: no hair to grab. John had left him with a few embarrassing scratch marks more than once, and this was looking to be one such occasion.

“Fucking hell,” John gasped as he fell flat on the bed again.

Victor crawled up the bed and laid on top of John. “Happy birthday.”

“To me,” John sang hoarsely.

Victor laughed and kissed John’s chin.

“Your turn.”

“Only if you want to. I’m fine just like this.”

“You’re sweet. But answer me this: can you come without anyone touching your cock?”

Victor raised a brow. “You mean just from prostate stimulation?”

“And other kinds of stimulation.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Gimme.”

Victor rolled off John and searched through his nightstand. “I think it’s still in lounge from last weekend.”

“Thank god no one came across that.” John climbed out of bed.

“You’re, uh, leaking.”

John looked over his shoulder at the back of his thigh. “So I am. Damn.”

Victor grabbed his hips and pulled his legs against the edge of the bed. He nuzzled his nose briefly against John’s arse before liking the wet on his thigh.

“Oh my god, you are disgusting.” But John was laughing. He wriggled out of Victor’s hands and walked out to the lounge. As he was searching in the drawers of the end tables and coffee table, he heard a phone chime. “Hey, Vic?”

“Yeah?” Victor called back.

“Are both our mobiles in there?”

After a moment, “Yeah, why?”

“I think someone left their phone.”

“Let them get it tomorrow.”

“If it’s Greg’s, though.” John began searching for the mobile instead of Victor’s vibrator. There was a second chime, this time definitely coming from the desk. The desk itself was clear except for a couple of glasses from the party. John’s heart skipped as his eyes fell to the drawer. He opened it and, sure enough, Sherlock’s own phone was lit up with a text message.

“John?”

He jumped and turned to see Victor had left the bedroom.

“What is it?”

“Sherlock’s phone.” He held up the bright screen.

“How does it even have charge?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t even realise it was on when it came in the mail.”

“Probably from whoever stole it.”

John slid his thumb over the screen. There was no contact name, and the number was blocked. “Let’s have dinner,” John read. “Yeah, prob-”

Victor snatched the phone from John’s hand. His eyes scanned the text for himself before a hushed, “Christ,” escaped his lips.

“What?”

“How does she not know?”

“Vic, what are you talking about? Do you know who that text is from?”

Victor looked up at John and nodded. His expression was grim. “A woman, Irene Adler. She was at uni with us. She and Sherlock…”

“I know.”

“This, it’s an inside joke between them. Or something. Even I’m not sure what it means, but she would text him and leave him notes randomly that said this, this exact message or near enough. Back then, he always dropped what he was doing. Even when we were dating. I knew it wasn’t sex, at least not after they broke up. I don’t know what it means, but,” Victor looked at the phone. “I can’t believe she doesn’t know. She travels a lot, not in the country very often, but I thought she’d have known. By now, certainly.”

John put a hand on Victor’s arm. “Is there any way we can get in touch with her? She should know.”

“Yeah. I have her email.”

They went back to the bedroom, where Victor pulled on his discarded boxers before sitting on the bed and picking up his phone. John pulled on his dressing gown and sat beside him, leaning his head on Victor’s shoulder. A few minutes after Victor sent the email with his mobile number, his phone rang.

“Irene, hey. Yeah, long time. It’s a long story, but I saw the text you just sent Sherlock. No,” Victor’s voice faltered. “We’re not back together. Irene, Sherlock… Irene, he’s gone. He died, almost three years ago. I should have told you, I should have emailed you, but I figured you’d hear about it. I’m sorry.” Victor was quiet for a while. “Yeah, I’m living here these days. Of course.” Victor looked at John. “Can I bring someone? I think you should meet him. Thanks. I’m sorry, Irene. Yeah, see you tomorrow. Bye.” Victor hung up and his hand fell into his lap.

“How is she?”

“With Irene? I can never tell. Sherlock was the only one who could read her, and even he had trouble sometimes.”

John wrapped his arms around Victor’s shoulders. “I’m sorry you had to do that.”

“I never had to tell anyone, not someone who knew him. Even my family found out the same way I did, from the news.” Victor shook his head. “Sorry. Shit way to end your birthday.”

“Don’t be sorry. Let’s get some sleep, yeah?”

Victor nodded and put his phone aside. John hugged him close under the covers and stayed awake until he was sure Victor was sleeping.

 

Irene Adler was a singular individual. John got that impression before they were even introduced. She had self-confidence and air about her that surpassed mere alpha. They met her at a restaurant across from Belgrave Square. After Irene and Victor greeted each other, Irene set her dark eyes and smile on John.

She offered her hand. “So, you’re the omega who stole our Sherlock’s heart.”

John hesitated before shaking. “He told you about me, before…”

“In a manner. Please, sit. And it’s on me, so don’t worry yourselves.”

John opened his mouth, but Victor steered him into a seat. “Trust me, you can’t argue with this woman.” He smiled across to Irene.

“He’s right. It’s part of the reason Sherlock and I never worked out. Neither of liked backing down.”

At Irene’s smile, John relaxed. “Yeah, he was stubborn.”

“An understatement, but you know that.” She ordered a bottle of wine and refused to talk more on the subject until they had all ordered lunch. She said she had been travelling and out of the country, and in fact most of Western Europe, for almost five years. 

“What do you do?”

Victor choked on his wine and Irene gave a soft laugh.

“What?” John looked between them.

“Victor dear thinks my profession will shock you.”

John raised his brow. “Oh?”

“I’m-”

“Irene,” Victor cautioned, to no avail.

“-a dominatrix.”

“A what?”

“Oh he is an innocent one,” Irene said, at ease but clearly delighted.

Victor groaned and slumped in his chair. “It’s to do with sex,” he muttered.

“Oh, right.” John shrugged.

Victor side-eyed him. “You seem incredibly calm about this.”

“I’ve been working in trauma surgery for the last several years. Just because I’m not used to the out-of-the-ordinary in my relationships doesn’t mean I’m completely ignorant on the subject.”

Victor straightened in his chair and glanced away guiltily.

“I mean, I’ve never met anyone who was… but I know about it.”

Irene gave a little nod.

“Don’t get me wrong. When Sherlock and I got together, and I’d only had my job about year, yeah I was completely oblivious to anything people might consider not kosher. I found out about his history,” John gestured to Irene and Victor both, “and I completely freaked out. But that was some time ago. I’ve done research since then.” John took Victor’s hand. “Plus, I’m with this kinky bastard now. Kinky for my tastes anyway.”

Victor rolled his eyes, but there was most definitely a blush in his dark cheeks.

“Well, I’m beginning to see why both my boys grew so fond of you.”

“That’s what she called us,” Victor explained. “So bloody proud of herself for putting me and Sherlock together back in uni.”

“A poor idea, as it would turn out. Well, we all learn.”

Irene didn’t say much throughout lunch. She would ask a question here and there: about what Sherlock had been up to before his death, about Victor’s life since uni, about John, about John and Victor. Mostly she kept John and Victor talking. After lunch, she kissed them both and thanked them for the company.

In the cab on the way home, Victor put a hand on John’s knee. “What’s up?”

John shook his head. “She seemed incredibly put together, considering the news.”

“Like I said, Irene is an impossible person to read. She’s as brilliant as Sherlock ever was and her masks are much more refined. I don’t think she’s unfeeling about it, but I don’t expect her to show it.”

John let the matter go, though it still nagged at the back of his mind for the rest of the day.

 

It was almost October before John’s next heat, and things went as well as the first time. John was in the last twenty-four hours, lounging in his dressing gown on the sofa with his head in Victor’s lap to get away from the bedroom for a bit, when there was a knock on the door.

John and Victor looked at each other. “Please kill them,” John murmured. The flat was soaked with his pheromones; it would be impossible for anyone to not notice.

Another knock and John groaned. He lifted his head for Victor to get up and wrapped the dressing gown tighter around him. He could just see over Victor’s shoulder when he opened the door and two hands raised defensively.

“I know, I know. I wouldn’t have knocked if it wasn’t urgent.”

John sat up and yawned. “Greg?”

Victor stepped aside, but he was on edge.

Greg, though he was an alpha, was also a professional. If his body reacted to the pungent pheromones, he talked through it. “I hate to do this, especially now, but I need to look through Sherlock’s case files.”

“Why?” Victor said, arms across his chest.

Greg looked hesitantly to Victor before pointedly at John. John sat up. “What is it? Victor can hear, it’s fine. What’s wrong, Greg?”

“We have a copycat.”

“Of?”

“Moriarty.”

An unbidden shudder ran through John.

“Someone’s been strapped with Semtex and is being held inside a pool. It’s not exactly a copycat, but they’ve clearly been influenced. I need to know how much, if they’re some nut who became obsessed with your story or if they actually knew Moriarty.”

“You must have all Sherlock’s information on Moriarty,” Victor said curtly.

“No,” John said on Greg’s behalf. “They only needed enough to verify he was real. Sorry, Greg, but I hid some things when your people came knocking.”

Greg nodded, not at all disturbed by the revelation. “I figured as much, and I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t life or death.”

“I know.” John tied the dressing gown tight and walked over to Sherlock’s filing cabinets. “Vic, give me a hand.”

Victor crossed the room in a flash to help John shift the largest cabinet away from the wall.

“Give him a break,” John whispered.

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” John smiled at him. He pulled out a thick folder from behind the cabinet and handed the whole thing to Greg. “Everything he ever wrote down about Moriarty. The stuff you saw already, too. I added it to the pile when you brought it all back.”

“I’ll return everything, John, I swear.”

“I trust you. Good luck, Greg.”

Greg nodded and bolted from the flat, probably for more than one reason.

Victor locked the door.

“That was sweet of you,” John teased.

“Just because we betas don’t have the pheromones to affect you doesn’t mean it’s the same the other way around. My skin was crawling.” Victor wrapped his arms tight around John. “You alright?”

John nodded. “Just don’t let me turn on the news.”

“Right.”

John nuzzled into Victor’s neck. It was embarrassing, but the brief presence of an alpha had stirred John up. “How’s your cock?”

“Oh, is it mine again?”

“Mm, maybe.”

“I think I could go a round.”

“Good.” John pulled the tie on the dressing gown and shrugged it onto the floor.

 

Greg’s case turned out to be just a fan of Moriarty’s work, rather than anyone with ties. He returned the folder to John, who put it back in its place behind the filing cabinet. Aside from an apology drink with Greg the week after, nothing more came of it.

On Bonfire Night, John and Victor went out onto the fire escape outside the empty upstairs bedroom, now containing mostly Sherlock’s old things, and watched the fireworks with a bottle of wine between them. It was close to midnight when John caught the faint sound of someone knocking.

“It’s probably some stupid kids,” Victor said.

“No, it was at our door, not the street door.” John climbed down the fire escape and back through their bedroom window. He reached the door as another set of knocks sounded. He opened it and his entire mind went blank.

There was no saying how long he stood there with the door open, staring, but it was long enough for Victor to come looking for him. “Jesus Christ!”

The pair of piercing grey eyes flickered past John. It was enough to break John of the white noise flooding his head.

“How… Sherlock?” Victor approached slowly.

Sherlock was already looking back at John, though. His lips pulled apart and he said in a quiet, clear voice, “I’m sorry.”

Before John knew what was happening, Victor shoved him out of the way and his fist collided with Sherlock’s cheek.

“Victor!” John screamed as Sherlock hit the floor.

“No. We thought he was dead. Why did you let us think you were dead?” he shouted at Sherlock.

Sherlock had lifted himself on his elbows, but he made no other move to get up. He cheek was bright red and he glowered at Victor. “Hit first, ask later. You haven’t changed, Vic,” he sneered.

John grabbed Victor’s arm before he could lunge on Sherlock. “Stop it.” He dragged Victor back into the flat. “Get up.” He couldn’t bring himself to look straight at Sherlock, or say his name.

Sherlock got to his feet and stood again at the threshold.

“Come in and close the door.” He was still gripping Victor’s arm, but it was as much to stable himself than to keep Victor from pummelling Sherlock.

Sherlock did as ordered and stood silent and still, at least until John told him not to just stand there. He hung up his scarf and coat.

“Vic, get the icepack.” John looked up at Victor when he didn’t move. “Please, Vic.”

Victor walked briskly from the room.

As soon as he was out of sight, Sherlock opened his mouth. John held up a menacing finger. “No. Whatever you could possibly have to say, you say it to both of us.”

Sherlock’s jaw snapped shut.

Victor came back into the room and shoved the icepack into Sherlock’s hands before returning to John’s side.

“Sit,” John said. “We need to sit.”

Sherlock took one of the desk chairs and set it on the other side of the coffee table across from the sofa. He put the icepack to his cheek and followed John and Victor with a sharp gaze. As soon as they sat, he looked to Victor. “I asked you to look after him, not to bed him.”

Victor leapt to his feet. “You son of a bitch. You were dead!”

John tugged at Victor’s sleeve. “Shut up. Both of you. Victor, sit down.” For several minutes after that, John could do nothing more than take in Sherlock’s presence. “How?”

Sherlock lowered the icepack. “Not the first question I anticipated, but one-”

“How could you do this to me?”

“Oh.” Sherlock tossed the icepack on the table. “I had little choice.”

“But you had a choice.”

“Moriarty was not an isolated incident. He had a vast, intricate network of-”

“I don’t care. I want to know how you could lie to me like this.”

“I am getting to that, but it does require at least minimal explanation.”

“No. Not why you did it. I don’t care. Not how you managed to fake your death or why. I want to know how you could betray me like this.” John’s voice was steady, but his body was not. He felt lightheaded. Victor put a hand on his back.

Sherlock’s mouth tightened. “Neither easily nor without a fair amount of coercion from Mycroft. I wanted to tell you, John. If I could have chosen one person to know without risking everything, it would have been you.”

“I wasn’t worth the risk?”

“It’s not that simple.”

John shook his head. “I need you to leave.”

“John-”

“I can’t—I can’t process this with you here. Leave, Sherlock. Please, just go.”

Sherlock collected his coat and scarf. “I’ll be at the Corinthia.” Neither John nor Victor acknowledged him, so Sherlock left.

Victor moved his hand to John’s shoulder, but John shrugged it off. “What did he mean, he told you to look after me?”

“In the last email I got from him, about a month before it happened, he asked me to look after you if anything happened to him. I didn’t think-”

John stood and took a few paces from the sofa before turning to look at Victor. “So this?” He gestured between them.

“No, god no. Yes, I took the basement flat because I knew you lived here and I wanted to do right by Sherlock. I knew he cared a lot about you, and if he was asking me that then I wanted to follow through with it if I could. But no part of that was supposed to be me and you. I fell in love with you because of you. Please believe me.”

John’s shoulders fell. “I do.”

Victor got up and went to John. He kissed him softly on the lips.

John hugged him tight. “I can’t wrap my head around it.”

“Neither can I.” Victor kissed the top of John’s head and whispered the words again into his hair.


	14. Chapter 14

It only took a few days for the media to explode with news of Sherlock’s return from the dead. John and Victor stayed off the news channels and tossed every newspaper before reading it. John had to turn his mobile off at work and at night to avoid calls. Even his inbox was filling up.

A week after Bonfire Night, John called in sick and took a cab to the Corinthia. He asked for Sherlock at the desk, but the concierge denied the man’s presence in the hotel.

“John? John Watson?”

John turned to see Irene Adler. “Irene, what are you-d”

“He’s on Mr. Holmes’ list,” she snapped at the concierge.

“Apologies, madam.”

Irene hooked her arm through John’s and led him out of the lobby.

“So you know,” John said in the elevator.

“I do.”

John looked at her. “You knew. You’ve known all along, haven’t you?”

“Not all along, no.”

“How long?”

“A little over a year. He needed help with a matter in Warsaw, and I was in the area.”

“What matter?”

“I really think that’s for him to say.”

John fumed in silence until they reached the top floor. “Figures Mycroft would put him up in a penthouse,” John murmured.

“No, I did. Sherlock is staying with me, until things settle out.”

“Things?”

Irene ignored John’s pointed question and led him down the hall to her rooms. “Sherlock, visitor.”

“I swear to god, Mycroft, I am not in the mood-” Sherlock came out into the lounge and stopped dead. He was dressed in a vest and pyjama bottoms with a rich burgundy dressing gown slipping from his shoulders. “John.”

“I’ll let you boys be then,” Irene said with a pleasant tone John didn’t at all like. She shut the door and it was suddenly the two of them again, after three years.

Sherlock shrugged his dressing gown onto his shoulders. “Make yourself—whatever.” For his part, Sherlock flopped onto a large sofa. He steepled his fingers under his chin like he used to do—like he always did because, after all, he’d never really been dead.

John sat in a far too comfortable chair without removing his jacket. Sherlock’s eyes were closed for the moment, but John knew he was listening intently and deducing every sound. “Alright,” John said. “I’ll hear why.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he sat up.

“Don’t expect it to change how I feel.”

“How do you feel?”

“Deduce it,” John muttered and sat back in the chair.

“I see. Still, I should be grateful that you are granting me the chance to explain.”

“Yes, you should be.”

Sherlock blinked. “Yes. The shortest version I can give is this: during the police’s feeble attempts at investigating Moriarty, the events that transpired came to Mycroft’s attention. Moriarty was at the centre of a criminal web. MI6 had been following him for quite some time, if without much success at deciphering him or a solution to the problem he and his network posed. When I became involved, the solution presented itself: I would kill Moriarty and fake my own death. From there, I would work covertly to dismantle the weakened but not yet destroyed network Moriarty left behind.”

“That’s the short and simple of it, is it?”

Sherlock nodded.

“And you couldn’t tell me?”

“My death had to be believable. If the network knew I was alive, they would have taken measures to make my job far more difficult.”

“But I couldn’t know?”

“John, false grief is difficult for even the most expert actors and con artists to maintain. With my death, every eye—kind and otherwise—would turn to you. If it was even suspected you might not believe my death, if you weren’t grieving properly, my cover would have been blown.”

“Your cover-”

“And your safety would be jeopardised.”

John closed his mouth.

“Regardless of what the masses believed, if Moriarty’s network knew or even supposed I was alive, you would have been their first target.”

John leaned forward and dug the heels of his palms against his eyes. “Three years.”

“I know.”

“Three bloody years.” John shook himself and stood up. He didn’t walk out, only away to give himself a moment to breathe. He walked over to one of the large windows overlooking the city.

“Does he treat you well?”

John looked over his shoulder. “Victor?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Yeah, he does.” John turned his back to the city. “Sherlock, you can’t expect things to switch back.”

“I know.”

“Vic and I have been together for a while. I love him. We love each other.” Despite John’s simmering anger, it hurt to see Sherlock’s expression so broken.

“As long as he treats you right,” he said. “I won’t get between you two.”

The words brought back what Victor had said the first night and John had sex, and John had to swallow hard before he could say anything. “I still love you, Sherlock, but, for the last three years, I thought I was loving a ghost.”

“I love you, too, which is why I won’t-” Sherlock leapt to his feet. “John, get down.”

“What?”

“Down!”

Before John could think to actually move, the window behind him crashed inward and his shoulder caught fire. He looked over as his body leant forward, slowly toward the ground. There was red, but it wasn’t a fire. It burned, though.

He didn’t hit the floor. Someone caught him first. Sherlock caught him. He was shouting, screaming. So loud. John lifted his other arm, the one not burning with invisible flames. He touched Sherlock’s cheek. He tried to tell him to hush, not to yell so loud, but he couldn’t think of how to speak. The fire began to fade, as did the rest of the world.

 

What John would not find out until much later was this:

Sherlock had noticed something on the window behind John. It was the faint, broken red of a targeting laser coming through the glass.

Sherlock alternated between screaming John’s name and Irene’s. Irene had not gone far—she’d been lurking outside the door in fact. She ran in and called for an ambulance before Sherlock could order it. Then she pulled Sherlock’s phone from the dressing gown he was still wearing and called Mycroft.

Irene waited until John was being carted off with Sherlock jogging behind the EMTs to pick up her own mobile again and call Victor.

What John would remember later was this:

In the back of the ambulance, with Sherlock holding his hand, he murmured his name.

Hours later, after surgery, in a haze of narcotics, he murmured Victor’s.

 

John woke bleary-eyed and equally minded. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through his shoulder and down his arm. He short cry made someone stir next to him. He looked over and saw Victor sleeping in a chair by his bed.

“Victor?”

“John? Oh god, thank god. John.” Victor gripped his hand. His eyes were raw and his dark cheeks stained.

“Where am I?”

“St. Thomas’. You were—shot,” Victor choked out the word.

“Shot?”

Victor nodded. “But it missed your heart. They surgeon said—she said-”

John squeezed Victor’s hand. “Sh, it’s alright. Hey, I’m here aren’t I? It’s fine.”

“I was so scared,” Victor’s voice cracked. “When Irene called me-”

“Irene? Irene. She’s alright though? And Sherlock? Oh god, he wasn’t shot, was he?”

“No. He left here a few hours ago. They’re both fine. I’m going to go find a nurse. They’ll probably want to know you’re awake.”

John squeezed his hand. “Don’t go too far.”

Victor smiled and kissed his brow. “I’ll be right back.”

John searched around for the bed controls. He flipped on the lights and tried to get a look at his shoulder. Missed the heart was an understatement. Either the sniper was a horrible shot, or John wasn’t meant to die from the bullet.

Victor returned with John’s surgeon. “Dr. Watson.” She shook John’s right hand. “Doctor of what, might I ask?”

“I’m a trauma surgeon at Bart’s, so don’t worry about beating around the bush or dumbing down the language.” John smirked.

“Good to know.” She didn’t comment on him being an omega and a surgeon, but she was obviously surprised to hear it. “Now, I will need explicit permission for your partner to remain as this is confidential.”

“Victor can stay.”

“Of course. The good news is, the bullet went straight through. Most of the damage is in your scapula. No organ damage, minimal muscular damage, and your joints are intact. Considering you’ve just been shot, you’re lucky.”

“Considering.”

“Short-term prognosis, it’s going to hurt like hell while the bone reforms. We’ve cleaned out anything that couldn’t be salvaged and grafted. Long-term prognosis, there was minor peripheral damage to the capsular ligament so there is a chance you may have some stiffness for years to come.”

“No beating around the bush,” John repeated with a grimace. “Can I still be a surgeon?”

The woman sighed. “We won’t be able to know until you start physio. It’s possible, but, to be completely honest, I would not expect the best outcome. The bullet and permanent cavity were small, but it looks like the temporary cavitation was substantial, which put a lot of stress on the surrounding tissues and nerves.”

“Thank you.”

“Get some rest. We want you here at least a couple days.” She gave John a heartfelt, apologetic smile and left the room.

“John-”

“I’ll think about it later. I’m alive, that’s what matters.”

Victor nodded and took his hand.

“You should go home, get some real sleep. That’s what I plan on doing.” John lifted the controller for his morphine drip and smiled.

“Are you sure?”

“If you stay, I’ll only feel guilty.”

Victor smiled. “I’m a phone call away.” Victor kissed him. “I love you.”

“Love you, too. See you tomorrow.”

Victor shut off the lights on his way out.

John let go of the smile and upped his drip. If Victor had caught on to how much pain he was in, he’d never have left. In a few minutes, his pain was numbed and he was drifting off.

 

They released John three days later. His surgeon said she would have liked to keep him longer, but she knew doctors were the worst patients. John bit back a comment about how he wasn’t a doctor anymore and thanked her instead.

After his first day home, John wouldn’t let Victor take any more time off work. He promised to call if there were any problems but he would mostly alternate between sleeping and watching crap telly with Mrs. Hudson.

A week after he was shot, John had dozed off on the sofa only to be awoken by the flat door slamming open. Sherlock stood in the doorway, out of breath and wide-eyed. “You’re alright.”

John struggled for a moment to sit up. “For the last bloody week. Where the hell have you been?” He had no way of contacting Sherlock without going through Mycroft, which he refused to do, or Irene, which meant asking Victor for her email. Though he wouldn’t say as much, it was clear Victor blamed Sherlock for John’s present situation.

“Hunting down the sniper.”

“Oh well then,” John sneered. “Any luck?”

“Little, and I wouldn’t call it luck.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” John scooted over on the sofa.

Sherlock stiffened and glanced about. “I shouldn’t stay.”

“Victor won’t be home until after five.”

Sherlock closed the door and sat uneasily as far from John as he could.

“He blames you.”

“He should. So should you.”

“You didn’t shoot me.”

“But it was on my account-”

“You didn’t pull the trigger. End of.”

Sherlock nodded, though it was pretty obvious he was still blaming himself. For more than the sniper. John let him for the time being.

“So, leads?”

“The same reason I’ve come back now. The last silk thread.”

“And who’s that?”

Sherlock gave him an uncertain look.

“Come on, I’m laid up for months and my career is, to use a bad pun, shot to hell. I at least deserve to know who did it.”

“Your- You can’t be a surgeon?”

“Probably not. Now talk.”

“John, I-”

“Sherlock, shut up about feeling guilty. You should, alright? Is that what you want to hear, that you should feel awful? Fine. Feel awful. But shut up about it.”

Sherlock nodded. “His name is Sebastian Moran, a former colonel. Dishonourably discharged. He went under the radar after that, for a while. Ended up as Moriarty’s right hand and go-to assassin. For a while we thought he was dead.”

“How?”

“The pool? The body was never identified, but it fit Moran’s stature. We thought he might have been sacrificed, as it were.”

“Intentional on Moriarty’s part no doubt.”

“No doubt. Mycroft and I-”

“That’s not a phrase I thought I’d ever hear.”

Sherlock grimaced. “We caught wind of Moran again a year ago. His profile was matched against a recent assassination in Warsaw.”

“Irene. She said that’s when she found out.”

Sherlock nodded. “I hoped she could be of use.”

“Was she?”

“To an extent.”

“Good.”

Sherlock gave him a curious look.

“I just need to know there was a damn good reason she knew before I did.”

“Unlike our relationship, someone would have to know extensively about my life to connect me with Irene. However, Moran did know. I believe Moriarty kept him apprised of everything he had learnt about me. There was a delay, but Moran did make the connection.”

“Hence, ‘to an extent.’”

“Hence. Luckily, Moriarty’s network was almost completely dismantled by then. Mycroft’s people could focus on the remains, and I could track Moran. We thought he were the ones hunting.” Sherlock pressed a fist against his knee.

“It was a trap.”

“An obvious one, too. I should have seen it.”

John looked at his shoulder. “He didn’t miss, did he?”

“No. The bullet was intended for you, and it was intended to be nonfatal.”

“Why?”

“To force my hand, and to make it an irrational one.”

“Wouldn’t killing me have been more effective at that?”

“No. Knowing you were alive meant you would continue to be a target.”

“So you would be pressed to find him.”

“Precisely.”

John slapped his knee with his good hand. “Alright, how do we find him?”

“I will find him. You are going to a safe house.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Sherlock grabbed his right shoulder. “I can’t lose you, John. I know I can’t be with you again, but I can’t lose you from my whole world. Not again.”

John covered Sherlock’s hand and gently pulled it away. “You won’t. Brick up the windows, set guards—I don’t care—but I’m not going to hide. Besides, if this guy’s as good as you’ve implied, putting me in a safe house will only delay his next move, not stop it.”

Sherlock withdrew his hand and sighed. “Ever the clearheaded one, John.”

“Which is surprising considering how much morphine is in my system right now.” John grinned. “Alright, now talk me through it. Like one of your deductions, tell me everything you can about Moran and his ties with Moriarty.”

Sherlock stayed and talked until half four, at which point he made a hasty exit. John would have preferred to mull over everything, but by then the pain was keeping him from thinking clearly as much as the morphine would, so he opted for relief. He said nothing of Sherlock’s visit to Victor, and guilt drilled its way deep inside him for the omission.

 

For the next two days, Sherlock came round after ten, when he could be certain Victor was far from Baker Street, and left at four. During the time between, he and John talked over the problem of Moran.

“We’re missing something,” John said abruptly.

“Moran?” Sherlock sighed.

“No, we’re missing why. Why is he doing this? Moriarty’s dead, right?”

“Undeniably.”

“So why not go find new jobs, new employers?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed.

“What was he doing in Warsaw? You said he’d made a mark. Was the mark tied to Moriarty’s network at all?” After a moment of searching his mind, Sherlock shook his head. “Then he didn’t know about you. He only found out you were alive when you made a move on him. That’s when he brought you back to London.”

“By a very indirect route.”

“You said it yourself, it was a trap. He wanted you to think he was being hunted.”

Sherlock shook his head. “But your point still stands: why go after an old mark when the employer is dead.”

“Well, either Moriarty’s ghost is floating around somewhere, or…”

“It’s personal.”

“That’s it!”

“John, you are a genius.”

“You figured it out.”

Sherlock smiled. “You asked the right question.”

John moved quickly past the look Sherlock was giving him and the way it made his stomach turn. “So, he has a personal stake in you being alive. Moriarty wasn’t just an employer, but a friend.”

“Lover more likely.”

“Really?”

Sherlock nodded. “If it were a friend, or even a sibling, Moran would be more likely to target me directly. However, as he is targeting you, it’s probable he wants me to suffer the way he’s suffering: emotionally and psychologically. If only he knew that I have,” Sherlock murmured.

John gripped his hand.

Sherlock was suddenly on his feet and had his mobile in his hand.

“What’s wrong?”

Sherlock ignored him and pressed the phone to his ear. “Mycroft. You need to put Victor under the same surveillance you have on John and Irene. Immediately. I’ll explain later.” 

“Victor?”

“He knows my history. We can deduce that much because he tied Irene to me. If he knows about Irene, he’ll know about Victor.” Sherlock hesitated. “Should I tell him?”

John sat back on the sofa. “He pretty much hates you right now.” He slipped his phone out of his pocket. “But he deserves to know he’s in danger.” He rang Victor’s office. “Hey, love.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Aside from the hole in my shoulder, mostly. I hate to ask you, but do you think you can manage to get out of the office early? I’ve been queasy all day.”

“Of course. Should I call the doctor?”

“No, not yet. I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s more precautionary. I’d like to avoid giving Mrs. Hudson a scare.”

“I’ll be home soon. Love you.”

“Love you. Thanks.” John hung up and let out a long breath. “He is not going to like this.”

“You should have just said my name. Or better yet, let me talk to him. He’d have teleported here if such a feat was even feasible at this point in our technological evolution.”

“I never should have made you watch Star Trek.” John grinned.

Victor was less than pleased to find Sherlock in the flat, but he resigned himself to the situation after John explained it. Sherlock left soon after to meet with Mycroft.

“It’s not his fault,” John said to a pacing Victor. “You know that, right?”

“It’s not about the gunshot, John.”

John sighed, “I know.”

There was a knock at the door. Victor started for it, but John stopped him.

“Did you hear the street door?” he spoke quietly.

Victor shook his head. John grabbed his mobile and motioned for Victor to follow him quietly to the bedroom. They shut and locked the door and John texted Sherlock, _SOS Moran here_. Then he shut off his phone.

Out in the lounge, they heard the door open. They strained to hear footsteps, but they couldn’t. A minute later, they did hear the street door slam open and a pair of footsteps bolting up the stairs. One pair.

John lurched for the door. Victor grabbed his good arm. “He came alone,” John snapped, pulling away from Victor and wrenching the door open.

There was a crash and John found his way to the lounge blocked by two men grappling over a handgun in the kitchen.

“Get out of here!” Sherlock shouted. “Both of you, RUN.”

John looked around and grabbed the broom from beside the fridge. It was snatched away, though, as Victor barrelled past him. At the first opportunity, he whacked Moran across the back of the skull. It had little effect.

Little, but enough for Sherlock to gain the upper hand and lunge back with the gun in hand. Whatever Moran’s next move would have been, he never had a chance to make it. Sherlock pulled the trigger, and the next moment Moran was splayed on the kitchen table with a gaping hole in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed, but there is now a total chapter count! The last chapter is an epilogue, so not as long as normal chapters.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything is written! Whoop! New chapter every day until it's all up : ]

Even with narcotics pumping through his system, John couldn’t sleep properly. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the scene in the kitchen. The scene before the police arrived. Not the dead body, not the dark hole in Moran’s head, but the blood splattered across Sherlock. Sherlock, who stood silent, chest heaving, staring at Moran’s body with a cold expression. Point-blank.

John got out of bed and noticed it was empty. He was sure Victor had been beside him when he last drifted off. He trudged down the hall to the loo, but he was sidetracked by voices coming from the lounge. He passed through the dark kitchen where most of the blood had been cleaned up and the kitchen table was now absent, left on the curb with the trash. He stood inside the threshold to the lounge and listened.

“I’m not going to force myself back in John’s life. I’ve told him as much, and I’m telling you.”

“You don’t get it. This isn’t just about John. John wasn’t the only one hurt here. You didn’t just leave John behind.”

“I see. This is rooted far deeper than what happened three years ago.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Deduce me when we’re having an argument!”

“You’re having an argument. I’m trying to avoid one. I’m sorry, Victor, for faking my death and putting you in an uncomfortable position, no matter how well it’s turned out for you and John. I’m not going to dig at the past, though.” Sherlock said something then John couldn’t make out.

“Not your fault? Like hell it wasn’t your fault.”

“We’ve been through this, ad nauseam. Do we really need to rehash it?”

“You just shot a man dead in front of me, in my own home. I need to hash something.” There was a silent moment, and then they both started laughing. “Christ.”

“I’ll buy you a new table, promise.”

“I don’t get it. What does John give us that we could never give each other?”

“Shall I make a list?”

“I mean it. Ninety-percent of the time, you and I were fantastic together.”

“Yes, the sex was quite something.”

“You know what I mean. It wasn’t all about the sex with us.”

“There was a lot of it, though.”

“We were twenty, of course there was a lot of it.”

Sherlock chuckled.

“But the other ten percent.”

“The other ten percent, we were volatile.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’ve gotten into trouble with John a few times.”

“Another commonality. However, you and I fed off one another. We were fuel to each other’s fires, good and bad.”

“And John?”

“He… tempers us.”

“Which I don’t understand because he can be as quick to anger as either of us.”

“John’s anger focuses him. Ours grows uncontrollably. He’s also apt to think about things before confronting the issue.”

“That’s true. Last time I ruffled him, he didn’t bring it up for almost a week.”

“What was it about?”

“He, uh, caught me using one of his dildos. During his heat.”

“Didn’t he know?”

“Yeah, but I think it stayed at the back of his mind. I never brought it up with him.”

“How bad was it?”

“You know, he was upset, but I’m not sure how angry he was. It was there, but… it was cold almost. He asked me if that’s what I wanted from him. God, the worst part? I think, if I did want it, if I had asked, he’d have done it. At least once. He’s so ready to sacrifice himself.”

“He had a similar reaction with me.”

“Why is that? Who hurt him?”

“No one, not in the way you’re thinking. You know about Mary?”

“Yeah, he’s told me.”

“And then what I did to him. He doesn’t want to risk losing the people he’s come to love.”

“He’d give himself up for that?”

“If you or I ever asked, he would.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Come now, Vic. Even I get it.”

“I know, and I do get it. I wish he didn’t think that way.”

“I don’t believe he’s all that aware he thinks that way. Are you, John?”

John froze a moment before walking guiltily out to the lounge. Victor and Sherlock were seated on the sofa. Victor had a beer in his hand. He, at least, looked surprised to see John there. “How long have you been listening?”

“Long enough,” Sherlock answered. “This is my cue.” He stood and looked between John and Victor. “I’ll come by tomorrow, if that’s alright?”

John and Victor looked at one another. “Yeah,” Victor said. “Whenever you want.”

Sherlock bid them goodnight.

Victor looked up at John. “Want to talk?”

“Not really. Come back to bed. I can’t close my eyes without… Come back to bed, please.”

“Of course.” He set the bottle on the coffee table and followed John back to the bedroom. He held John carefully and close until John finally managed to fall asleep, without seeing blood.

 

A few days after the events with Moran tied up, John came down with a fever. Victor dragged him off to the surgery despite his protests, where he was prescribed antibiotics against possible infection in his shoulder and sent home. For the next week, his stomach was a wreck and his fever didn’t abate. At that point, Victor brought him to the hospital. He brought him to Bart’s, where at least he’d have plenty of familiar faces. Plus, enough people knew Victor that they wouldn’t kick him out of John’s room for not being family. So John was checked in and set up in a private room with IV fluids and antibiotics.

“It’s not infection and his blood work came back clean.”

“Then why is he sick, Mike?”

“Best guess? It’s psychological.”

“PTSD?”

“After everything that happened in the last few weeks, it’s possible. His mind is exacting a toll on his body, and his body’s reacting like it’s sick. In a way, it is sick.”

“Christ.”

“I’ll call in a psychiatrist to be sure.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Try to talk to him.”

 

They released John after twenty-four hours’ observation and sent him home with a prescription for an antidepressant and the number for a psychotherapist. John took the medication, but he refused to see the therapist. He got himself off the narcotics and stocked up on ibuprofen and paracetamol. Then he sent in his resignation.

A month after John was shot, he told Victor they needed to talk. The look on Victor’s face stated he expected the worst. John wasn’t sure if he should. They sat on the sofa not particularly close. “Vic,” John said. “I love you.”

Victor took John’s hand. “It’s alright, John. I know what you’re going to say.”

“No, you don’t. You think you do. You think I’m going to say that I’d rather be with Sherlock than with you. That’s not what I’m going to say, so shut up and let me talk.” John took a deep breath. “I love you. I love Sherlock. Call me selfish, but I don’t want to have to choose between you two. I’ve been thinking a lot the last couple weeks; I haven’t had much else to do. The thing is, I want Sherlock back in my life, but I don’t want you out of it, and I’ve been trying to figure out a way that could happen and I can’t. Except one way, and I don’t think you two would go for it.”

“What way?”

John swallowed hard. “I believe the term is, _ménage à trois_?”

Victor didn’t respond right away. He looked at John utterly nonplussed.

“Forget it. Forget I said anything.”

“You… want a threesome?”

“No. It’s not about sex. You told me when we met that you still loved Sherlock. I wouldn’t be surprised if he felt the same way about you, though he might not even realise it. I’m just saying, if all three of us love each other, why should any of us have to choose?”

“Sherlock and I don’t work.”

“When you were twenty. And,” John hesitated, “it was just the two of us.”

“How much of our conversation did you hear exactly?”

John winced. “Too much.”

Victor shook his head. “John…”

“At least think about it maybe? Talk to Sherlock? I won’t bring it up with him.”

Victor took a deep breath. “Let’s say hypothetically we tried this. What if it doesn’t work?”

John took Victor’s hands. “If it doesn’t work, it’s us. Sherlock left me. Whatever the reason, whatever the circumstances, he left me. I’m not about to do the same to you so I can be with him.”

“But you want to be with him.”

“I want to be with both of you, if it’s possible. You come first, though. I swear.” John leant over and kissed Victor lightly. “I won’t bring it up again.”

Victor nodded and said nothing more on the topic.

 

The next day, Clara showed up at the flat unexpectedly. John’s stomach sunk; in all the chaos of the last month, he’d never thought to call her. She took one look at him and hugged him around his middle.

“I’m so glad you’re alright.”

“I’m sorry, I should have called you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You were shot! That allows for a little bit of absentmindedness.” She stepped back and smiled at him. She was crying. “Besides, I was in Paris for a couple weeks. It probably would have been hell getting in touch with me anyway.”

John’s brow rose. “Melanie?”

“Yes, Melanie. But you first.” Clara shut the door and they went to sit on the sofa.

John told her everything about the last month, from Sherlock showing up on Bonfire Night to his conversation with Victor last night. When he finished, Clara hugged him close. “I don’t want to lose either of them,” he said, voice muffled in Clara’s shoulder. “I know it’s selfish.”

Clara pulled back, hand on his good shoulder. “You’re not selfish, John. You have a good heart. Not many people can love as deeply you do, and with more than one person.”

“I’m glad he’s alive. Still pissed about the lies, but I’d rather that than for him to still be dead. But everything’s complicated now. I’ve been with Victor longer than I was with Sherlock, but, now that everything with Moran is over, all I can think about when I see Sherlock is how much I want to hold him again, and how much I want to be in his arms. I don’t know if I will ever get over that feeling, and I’m afraid, if I don’t, I won’t be able to have him in my life. It hurts too much.”

“Oh, Johnny,” Clara sighed. 

“And I can’t tell Victor. Victor can never know. I don’t want him to make a decision because I’ve accidentally guilted him into it. But, sooner or later, I’ll have to tell Sherlock.”

Clara looked at him, expression pained. For once, she was unable to offer John any advice.

 

Sherlock showed up two days before Christmas bearing a note in Victor’s handwriting. He offered it to John before closing the door and hanging up his coat and scarf. John read it, wondering what else Victor had told Sherlock outside of the written word:

_I’m going to stay with my family for the next week. Go to Baker Street. Be with John._

“He left this morning,” John said and handed the note back to Sherlock. “Did he say anything else to you?”

“We had coffee the day before yesterday,” Sherlock told him. “He said quite a bit more.”

“He told you what I said?”

Sherlock nodded.

“And?”

“He said you doubted either of us would be comfortable with the prospect. However, I have no qualms about it and am perfectly amiable to the proposed arrangement.”

“Amiable? Arrangement? Sherlock.”

Sherlock put a hand on John’s right shoulder and the other at the back of his neck. “I would accept any arrangement to be with you again, John, as long as you were willing. That the third party is Victor makes it less worrisome, as I know him and I know how you and he feel toward one another.”

John pulled away the hand at his neck. “How do you feel about him?”

Sherlock went tight-lipped.

“I think you should tell me what happened with you two in uni. I heard you talking, remember? You both agreed you worked most of the time. I know Victor still has some love for you.”

Sherlock looked surprised at the last part.

“You didn’t know?”

“Perhaps you don’t remember, but I can be rather dim when it comes to these things.”

John smiled. “Well, he does.”

“This will take a while.”

“I’ll put the kettle on.”

They took their tea at the new kitchen table Sherlock had ordered to the flat. Sherlock spoke at length, and his voice washed over John like a natural sedative. John listened intently, but some of the tension fled at the cadences and depths of Sherlock’s voice. There was emotion behind what he said, which hit John unexpectedly about twenty minutes in. The only times John had felt such sentiment behind Sherlock’s words were when John was the recipient as well as the audience.

Sherlock kept his diaries because he was still working out the kinks of his mind palace. The written word still proved useful in those days. He had not been keen on finding romance after Irene—with whom there had been passion and friendship, but little romantic love as it would turn out. Irene pushed Sherlock and Victor together, and for a while it seemed an appropriate match. What Sherlock could see when it came to science and hard fact, Victor could do when it came to people. They were mutually fascinated by each other’s gifts, and it was one of many ways in which they complimented one another. However, as it would turn out, they were at times too much alike. Fights, though infrequent, would erupt sudden and violent. They were often resolved with equally intense sex, without any real conversation to work out what the problem had been. Eventually, it all built up to one really bad fight prompted by the note Irene had written to Sherlock, who in turn showed it to Victor. Victor assumed it was Sherlock’s way of breaking up with him and called him a coward, among other things. Instead of correcting Victor’s misperception, Sherlock returned insult for insult until enough was said on both sides that there was no turning back.

John finished his second cup of tea before speaking, “It’s been almost ten years.”

“Which is why we can be as amiable as we are, beside our shared desires to make you happy. Our bickering would not help that.”

“No, no it wouldn’t. But the point I was trying to make is, you’re both older. You’ve cooled off a lot since then. Victor, the Victor I know, he’s a lot more level-headed. He still does to occasional stupid thing, but who doesn’t? And you, unless you’ve changed drastically in the last three years, you’re good at gauging yourself, at least when it comes to the people who matter to you.” John paused and huffed, “I’m probably trying too hard to reason things out.”

“Understandably.”

John smiled.

Sherlock tapped Victor’s note where it lay on the table between them. “Would you like me to stay?”

“Yeah. That’d be nice.”

 

Having Sherlock’s scent constantly about was intoxicating. It was like coming home, though John hadn’t been the one to leave. It smelt like family, like everything was right. But, though his basic biochemistry was satisfied, John still felt Victor’s absence; there was still a deep, quiet guilt inside him. For this reason and John’s shoulder, there was no sex while Sherlock stayed over. They didn’t even kiss, but they held each other often and for long periods. They slept in the same bed, Sherlock wrapped around John like a cocoon. Christmas came and went quietly. John lost track of the days.

They had brought the duvet out of the bedroom and were curled up in front of the fire, Sherlock’s back to John’s chair and John between Sherlock’s legs. They were reliving pleasant memories, old cases, and Sherlock had John laughing when the door opened.

The laughter drained from John. “Vic!” He scrambled to his feet, having no choice but to use Sherlock’s knee to brace himself. He went to Victor and greeted him with a kiss, which Victor hardly returned. Victor’s gaze lingered on John a moment before going past him. John put his hand on Victor’s chest. He wanted to tell Victor nothing had happened between him and Sherlock over the last week, but it didn’t feel like the truth. The last week suddenly felt like a very bad idea.

Victor set his bag on the floor and circled around John. He headed straight for Sherlock. John braced himself for the worst, ready to step between the two at any moment. Sherlock looked equally on guard. Neither of them expected Victor to do what he did: he took Sherlock’s face in his hands and kissed him.

It took a moment, but Sherlock definitely kissed back. Then he took hold of Victor’s wrists and pulled away.

“It wasn’t about sharing John with you. I knew I could do that. I wasn’t sure I could go back, though.”

“Let’s not, then.” Sherlock caressed Victor’s cheek with his long fingers. “Let’s go forward.”

Victor nodded and smiled. They exchanged another brief kiss before John called their attention by clearing his throat. “I’m something to be shared, is that it?”

“You know what I meant.” Victor held out a hand to John.

John grinned and joined them by the fireplace, taking Victor’s hand as Sherlock put his on John’s shoulder. “Yeah, I know.”

 

It was mid-January. Sherlock had yet to unpack much of the boxes in the upstairs room—a few clothes, his computer, his violin—and he still went back to the Corinthia on occasion, but it was more of a formality. He spent most of his days and nights back at Baker Street, and the three of them fell into place with surprising ease.

When Sherlock slept, they made room for him in bed. John regressed to the old habits of putting food in front of Sherlock whether he asked for it or not, and Sherlock begrudgingly put fuel into his body. John noticed Victor taking similar tactics with the genius. If a few days went by with Sherlock lounging about the flat in his pyjamas, Victor would wordlessly throw a towel at him and Sherlock would scowl and trudge off to take a shower.

The first time Greg came round with a case, Sherlock lit up. It couldn’t have been more than a six on his scale, but he had obviously been waiting for this. Despite three years’ absence, he looked to John on reflex. Mouth agape, eyes alight with excitement, he stopped himself and turned to Victor.

Victor sighed and waved him off. “Go. But I swear, if you let him mess up his shoulder.” No more needed to be said.

Sherlock practically put John’s coat on for him before donning his own and following Greg out of the flat.

Between examining the crime scene and the body at the morgue, the case took half a day at most. The only really interesting thing to pass, outside of the case, was when Molly sidled up to John while Sherlock was looking over the body.

“So you and Sherlock,” she murmured. “Back on cases together.”

“Mhm.” Of course, it soon became evident that Molly meant more by “cases” than actual cases.

“And Victor?”

John looked away from Sherlock’s hunched back to meet Molly’s intrigued gaze. “Erm, yeah?”

Molly grinned about as wide as anyone could without becoming a cartoon character.

John rolled his eyes, but the pleasant feeling in his chest told another story.

The case was enough to get Sherlock’s blood flowing, as it were, but not enough to reach the high. He was antsy the entire cab ride home. John, for his part, was exhausted from the few hours they’d spent rushing about London. He knew it was his body healing, but it was still frustrating. He opted for a hot bath and left Victor to deal with Sherlock’s mood for the time being.

When John emerged, he found what he would later acknowledge as the inevitable: Sherlock on top of Victor on the sofa, the two snogging, hands all over each other, and rutting fully clothed.

There had been no sex between the three of them in the few weeks since Victor came back home. John expected his shoulder had a good deal to do with that, but he had watched arousal rekindle between the beta and alpha. His disappointment came not from jealousy, but from his inability to participate. As he quickly learnt, though, he didn’t mind watching.

It took a minute for them to notice him standing across the lounge in his bathrobe. Victor saw him first and immediately pushed Sherlock back. Sherlock looked at John with an old familiar gleam in his expression that sent a pleasant shiver down John’s spine.

“John,” Victor said, obviously still trying to work through the rest of his thoughts. “We—it just sort of-”

John gave a one-shouldered shrug. “He can get randy after a case. It’s better than when he mopes.”

Victor’s mouth snapped shut. Sherlock grinned.

“Want to move this to the bedroom?” John didn’t wait for a response before turning and heading back through the kitchen.

In the bedroom, John hung up his bathrobe on the back of the door and sat cross-legged on the far bottom corner of the bed. Sherlock practically sauntered in, while Victor still looked guilty about the whole thing. They were both pleasantly dishevelled.

“John,” Victor started. He sat on the edge of the bed next to John.

“It’s fine.” John placed his hand on Victor’s cheek. “I can watch. I want to. I want to see you two.” He kissed Victor and smiled. “Live porn of the two men I love. What’s to complain about?”

Sherlock sat on the bed behind Victor and draped his arms over the beta’s shoulders. “He has a very good point.”

Victor elbowed Sherlock half-heartedly.

Sherlock looked straight into John. “Any requests?”

John’s breath caught. He hadn’t considered, but upon being prompted he knew what he wanted to see first. “I want Victor to top.” He’d seen what prostate stimulation could do to Victor, but he’d never witnessed it with Sherlock. “If that’s alright,” he added, this time meeting Victor’s gaze.

“Fine by me,” Sherlock said. He laid back on the bed and stretched out catlike.

Victor smiled and nodded. “Won’t take as long to prep, and—god!—my cock aches.” Behind him, Sherlock let out a low chuckle.

“What do you mean?” John made sure to convey his sincere interest. If this was going to be it, the three of them, he wanted to learn all his medical books didn’t make a point to mention.

“Well,” Victor said as he began unbuttoning his shirt, “it takes a long time to prep for an alpha’s knot when the body’s not built for it.”

“You were always built for my knot,” Sherlock commented. Still on his back, he had also begun disrobing.

Victor smirked. “You didn’t feel that way the first time. He was so impatient. He’d never topped before and part of him just wanted to orgasm and be done with it. Once he figured out how to use those fingers of his, though, mm.”

“You may have trained him a little too well,” John laughed.

Sherlock hoisted himself onto his elbows and gave them both a narrow look. “What did you tell him?”

“About our first time, and how you kept looking for my nonexistent prostate.”

Victor twisted around and kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “It’s alright, we all have our times of innocence and ignorance.”

Sherlock huffed.

“You know,” Victor mused, “we were all each other’s first at something. I was your first beta, and your first bottom. John was your first omega. I was his first beta partner during oestrus.”

“I wasn’t John’s first anything,” Sherlock said with a false air of disinterest.

“You were my first idiot.” John smiled more sincerely. “You opened my eyes to so much more. If not for you, I’d never be comfortable with this.” There was no gesture needed to clarify that he meant them, the three of them, together.

“Hmph.”

Victor kissed John and said, “Excuse me, I have to go ravish an idiot.”

“Ravish away.”

They made some attempt to give John a bit of a preshow, but they had clearly gotten well on their way in the lounge. Within a very short span of time, they were as bare as John. Victor dug out the bottle of lube from the nightstand and got started.

There was no natural lax to the sphincters that came with John’s arousal; even outside of oestrus it occurred to a small extent. Victor had to work more gradually, and it seemed to take an incredibly long time before he could even get two fingers into Sherlock.

John began to notice every time Victor brushed against Sherlock’s prostate: the brief tensing of muscles, the hitches in his breathing, and the way he always looked to John when it happened. By the time Victor rolled on the condom, John was sure, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he was wet enough they’d have to change the sheets in the morning.

The way Sherlock looked as Victor pushed into him was—exquisite. John had no other word for the way his neck was exposed, his back arched just so, the show of ribs and every single muscle of his body, his continued eye contact with John. The curls at his brow clung to his sweat-damped skin.

John couldn’t just watch. He crawled up the bed and, bracing himself on his good arm, leant over Sherlock and kissed him. They’d had few kisses in the past weeks, and none like this. Sherlock grabbed the back of John’s neck and moaned as Victor thrust into him.

“Knot me,” Sherlock rasped into John’s mouth.

John sat up, but before he turned to Sherlock’s cock, he leant over to Victor and kissed him as hungrily. He could hear Sherlock panting behind him. When he finally wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock, Sherlock let out a rumbling groan. It only took one long, hard stroke for Sherlock to knot. John nodded to Victor and the beta picked up a slow rhythm that John matched with his hand. When Sherlock begged for more, faster, they gave it to him, and he was coming in minutes.

John kissed him again, enjoying the lazy way Sherlock’s tongue moved inside his mouth. When they came apart, Sherlock looked at Victor. He nodded and braced his arms on the headboard. John sat back and watched with a heavy mix of arousal and fascination as Victor’s steady pace picked up exponentially, until the mattress was moving under the three of them and all rhythm was lost as Victor used Sherlock’s body to reach his own climax.

Victor draped himself over Sherlock, disregarding the ejaculate that decorated the pale stomach. John ran his fingers up and down Victor’s back. “You still have horrible stamina,” Victor murmured.

“I’ll prove that statement inaccurate when we reverse roles.”

Victor turned his head to look at John, resting it on Sherlock’s shoulder. “He never could last long.”

John shook his head. “I have to side with him on this one, Vic. Maybe it’s being with an omega, but he’s got quite the stamina when he gives it.”

Sherlock smiled, proud and victorious.

“Speaking of our omega.” Victor raised himself up and pulled out, eliciting a slight wince from Sherlock. “Sherlock, sit against the headrest. John, sit in his lap.”

“Vic, I’m fine.”

But Sherlock was already following Victor’s instructions and dragged John between his legs. He tilted John’s face to the side and up and kissed him, this time with more firmness. Meanwhile, Victor slid off the bed and went to the closet. He returned with one of John’s moderately sized dildos, one with more length than width and wouldn’t require much stretching, especially in John’s current state.

Without warning, Sherlock slipped his thighs beneath John’s and bent them up again, lifting John’s feet off the bed. His arse barely touched the mattress. Sherlock leant back, arms wrapped around John’s torso to bring the omega with him.

“Oh god,” John breathed.

“Alright?” Sherlock murmured in his ear.

John swallowed. “In a way.”

Victor grinned and kissed him. Using the opposite hand he had with Sherlock, he pressed a finger against John’s hole. It slipped in with ease. John was embarrassingly wet, considering he was nowhere near oestrus. After a bit of two-fingered work, Victor turned to the dildo. He kissed the inside of John’s thigh as he pushed it in. John whimpered as it pressed into his vagina, wriggling against Sherlock’s body. Victor continued to kiss John’s thighs and knees and calves and ankles, all the while moving the dildo inside John.

John’s eyes were screwed shut with pleasure. He squirmed, not entirely of his own accord, as his body tried to find purchase. Sherlock held him completely off the bed, though, sliding down the bed so he could lean back further until he was almost flat on his back, John held against him and feet seemingly miles from the mattress. Without warning, Sherlock’s fingers were on John’s prick. With a bit of rubbing at the head, John’s body tensed and his insides pulsed as he reached orgasm. He twitched and shuddered as Sherlock gave him a few more rubs before letting go of his sensitive prick, and Victor pulled the dildo out.

“Oh my god,” John managed to gasp, eventually.

Sherlock kissed his temple and Victor his knee. “How’s your shoulder?” the latter asked.

“Shoulder? I have shoulders?”

Sherlock, who had the only clean hand between the three of them, peeled back the corner of John’s dressing. “Damn.”

Victor frowned. “What?”

“It’s not bad, but it is bleeding a little.”

“I’ll get the first aid box.”

John managed to get his legs off Sherlock’s and sat forward on the bed. “Guys, it’s fine.”

Victor was already at the door, though. They could hear the tap running and a few minutes later he returned with John’s kit.

“Guys.”

“That was stupid of us,” Victor murmured.

John cupped Victor’s cheek and made the beta look at him. “It was wonderful of you.”

Victor sighed and went to work cleaning John’s shoulder and replacing the bandage. After, John begrudgingly admitted he needed ibuprofen, which only worsened the guilty look on Victor.

“He doesn’t like causing others pain,” Sherlock muttered while Victor went to get John painkillers and water.

“He caused a lot more pleasure than pain just now. You both did.” Once John swallowed the tablets, he took Victor’s hand and pulled him forward. “Thank you.” John kissed him, and Victor seemed to relax a little.


	16. Chapter 16

At the end of March, John obtained a prescription for a month’s worth of suppressants. While they were able to devise ways that they could all enjoy sex without risking damage to John’s shoulder, there was no way he’d be able to go through a heat in his condition.

Once the suppressant wore off, though, they had passed the six-month mark and John was ready. There was no question as to who John wanted first; no one even bothered asking. For the first time in three and a half years, John had Sherlock inside him, knotting him, filling him body as well as soul.

Victor took much the same role John had the first time the three of them had sex: kissing John, kissing Sherlock, stroking John’s prick as well as his own. John didn’t know who got off first or last, only that they all did and for quite some time lay tangled together on the bed.

The bed was relatively new—much larger—and one of several recent changes in John’s life. Bart’s hired him back as a part-time lecturer, and John knew he had Mike and Molly to thank for it, though they refused to admit to any meddling. In addition to teaching, he also became an unofficial consult for some of the staff. He knew that blame lay on Molly, who would ask him to come in and give a second opinion on bodies. Eventually, other pathologists would email him with photos for his take, and junior surgeons would catch him in the corridor and ask advice.

Sherlock’s caseload steadily grew again, both from the Yarders and private clients. The boxes came down from the upstairs room and were unpacked. His experiments resumed but were temporarily cut off after a particularly pungent, though contained, explosion. John and Victor managed to convince Sherlock that the kitchen was not going to do anymore, not with two people who actually liked to cook food and eat at a table from time to time. After a few bickering sessions between Sherlock and Victor, which John always had to break up, someone finally came up with the brilliant idea for Sherlock to use the upstairs room as his lab. Both beta and alpha were too stubborn to admit having overlooked such an obvious solution, and John let that one slide.

Not every argument went so well, though. Some had John shouting as loud as the other two; others found him storming out of the flat. John was venting about the two blockheads over lunch with Clara when she made a simple, yet should-have-been-obvious suggestion:

“Make them talk.”

“Got a volume control?”

“I mean it, John. They said their problem back in the day was neither liked to give any ground, and they never talked things through. If you want this to work out, you need to smack their heads together and make them talk.”

John groaned and dropped his forehead to the table. Of course, that was exactly what it came to. The first few times, John had to painstakingly drag out more than insults and accusations from either of them. Finally, he told them someone had to choke down their pride and give ground or else the three of them weren’t going to work. A minute later, they were practically screaming over each other to give that ground.

They didn’t parade around their relationship, but they didn’t hide it. Yarders looked at John and Sherlock sideways, though Greg told off anyone he caught gossiping. Most of John’s colleagues at Bart’s, those who had known him long enough and pieced things together for themselves, either grew a little more stiffly professional or carried on as normal. No one really gave him dirty looks around the hospital or classrooms.

John didn’t know exactly how far-reaching word of his personal life was until a student came by his office after class one afternoon. She was an omega who had switched from a nursing track to osteopathy after she began classes with John. She had already told John on more than one occasion how much he inspired her.

“Hiya, Rachael.”

“Hi, Dr. Watson. Can I close the door?”

“Of course.” John put aside his grading and walked around his desk to one of the two chairs in his office. “What can I help you with?”

Rachael set her bag down and sat, clasping her hands in her lap. “It’s, uhm, a bit of a personal issue. I don’t mean to be nosy, but I’m not sure who else to talk to who won’t look at me weird.”

John smiled and put a hand over hers. “You won’t find any judgement here, except on your assignments.”

Rachael gave him a nervous smile. “People talk about you. I- I don’t like some of the things they say. They get nasty. But I don’t mind, honest.”

John sat back and folded his hands. “About how I live with a beta and an alpha?”

The young woman gave a nervous nod. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“That’s good. So, let me guess, you like someone—or someones—but you’re worried a relationship with the person or persons won’t be looked very kindly on by others?”

Rachael nodded, staring at her lap. “One someone.”

“Rachael, there is a whole world out there of people who think they know what’s right and wrong, what should and shouldn’t be.” John leaned toward her. “But do you know what I’ve learnt?”

Slowly, Rachael peered up at him.

“As long as everyone involved is safe and happy, do what you damn well please.” John flashed her a grin. “Look, I’ll be honest with you, getting into a relationship that’s considered socially taboo is hard, internally as well externally. The people involved may struggle with coming to terms with their desires after years of being taught that such desires are wrong. And it’s not easy getting cruel looks and words. For some people, it’s unfortunately too much and they become pressured into hiding it.”

“You don’t,” Rachael said abruptly. “I mean, I saw you the other week in Regent’s, with Sherlock Holmes and the other man, the beta.”

“Victor.”

“You and Victor were holding hands, and Sherlock had his arm around your waist. I was surprised. I mean, everyone knows, but you were all so open about it.”

“We make each other happy, and we can be the support for each other when cruel words get hard to hear. And we have friends and family who support us. Not all of them were keen on it right away, but the people who matter most will want your happiness above any ideologies they hold. They want always be comfortable with it, but they’ll accept it.” John put a hand on her shoulder. “If you need someone, until it becomes clear who those people in your life are, I can be your support.”

“Really?”

John nodded.

Rachael jumped out of her chair and flung her arms around John. Just as quickly, she backed off. “Sorry, sorry. I’m sorry, Dr. Watson.”

“Call me John, and it’s fine.” John stood and gave her a proper hug. “I know it can be hard. You’re a strong, brilliant woman, Rachael. Make yourself happy.”

“Thank you, so much.” Rachael left his office, wet-eyed and grinning.

 

A week after John’s thirty-fifth birthday, he received a call from his mother. She was crying into the phone, and it took a while for John to make out any words. When he did, his mobile slipped from his hand and crashed to the floor. Sherlock looked up from his laptop.

“What’s wrong?”

“Harry,” he mouthed. He couldn’t get his vocal cords to work.

Sherlock got to his feet and led John over to his chair. “John? Look at me.” He lifted John’s face.

Eventually, John found himself grounded in Sherlock’s eyes. “Harry,” he croaked. “There was an accident. She’s in a coma.” He looked down and stared at his empty hands.

Sherlock picked up John’s mobile and made sure the call was over. Then he slipped his own out of his pocket and hit one of his few saved contacts. “Vic. Any chance you can get away for the rest of the day?”

“Sherlock, no-”

Sherlock waved John silent. “Harry’s had an accident. She’s in a coma. Alright, see you then.” He put both phones on the desk and went back to John, squatting in front of his chair.

“He doesn’t need to leave work. What can he do?”

“What I can’t. You know I’m not very good at this.”

John reached out and pressed his hand against Sherlock’s cheek.

“What can I do?”

“I don’t know.” John shook his head. “I should be with Mum. I need to pack, get a train ticket.”

“I can take care of that. What can I do until Victor gets home?”

John shivered. “I…”

Sherlock took John’s hand and pulled him up from the chair. He led him to the sofa where he sat and pulled John into his lap. With Sherlock’s long arms wrapped securely around him, John pressed into the lanky body and shut his eyes. They were like that for almost two hours. When Victor came home, he took over from Sherlock. John was vaguely aware of Sherlock busying himself around the flat, making sure John had everything he needed for his trip. He remembered Victor asking if he wanted one of them with him, and he shook his head. After an early tea, he set out for his mum’s.

 

John was alone in the hospital room when Harry came out of her coma less than seventy-two hours after the accident. He silently ticked off that all of her vitals were sound and stayed where he was, in the chair at her bedside.

Eventually, she opened her eyes and slowly looked around the room. “H- Hey, Johnny bear.” Her voice was hoarse and her smile cracked.

“Hey, Harry.” He poured water into a small plastic cup and held her head up while she sipped.

“So, that wasn’t a bad dream?”

“No.”

“How’s mum?”

John’s voice remained level as he replied, “How the fuck do you think she is?”

Harry closed her eyes. A moment later, her cheeks were wet. “I really screwed up this time.”

“Yeah, you really did.”

“No one else…”

“No, you hit a wall. Literally and figuratively.”

Harry tried to smile again, but she couldn’t quite. “I’m sorry, John.”

John ignored her and pulled his mobile from his pocket. He called his mum, who barely gave herself time to shriek into the mouthpiece before hanging up on John. Then he got out of his chair to go find a doctor.

Harry grabbed his hand. It wasn’t a very secure grip. “John.”

“Shut up, Harry. Nothing you say can fix this.” John stepped away and stopped. “But I am relieved, that you’re still here.” He took a deep breath and walked out of the room.

 

John spent the next week staying out of his mother’s way, which largely meant steering clear of the hospital. He packed up Harry’s ramshackle flat and had everything delivered to his mum’s, where he made up Harry’s cramped childhood bedroom for her. During a few minutes he had alone with his sister, he told her she was damn lucky she hadn’t broken any limbs. Aside from the concussion, her injuries extended to whiplash and a few cracked ribs. Harry said she was just damn lucky, and John didn’t argue.

When a week had passed since Harry came out of her coma, she started asking him about his life. That was when John decided things would be fine without him there. He told his mum to call if she needed help keeping his sister in line and kissed her cheek. He bent over Harry in her hospital bed and to hug her and whisper, “Mum’s almost seventy. She doesn’t need your shit, but she’s Mum so she’ll wade through it because she loves you. Don’t take advantage of that.” Harry whispered back her umpteenth apology.

Only on the train ride back to London did John start thinking about the state of things in his own home. New anxiety crept inside him at the thought of how Sherlock and Victor had gotten on without him. It was late when he finally trudged up the stairs to 221B. Things were quiet, but he caught the light seeping through the cracks in the door of the upstairs room. He put his bags just inside the flat and went up. Sherlock’s response when he knocked was curt.

John was immediately stunned speechless. Sherlock was obviously mid-case mode, sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up, safety goggles plastered against his forehead as he stared at his present experiment as if it had offended and betrayed him. Of course, none of that was what shocked John. It was that Sherlock’s naturally dark curls had been bleached almost platinum blonde.

“Please, please tell me this is for a case.”

Sherlock looked up at him and quickly sussed that John was not talking about the experiment. He touched his hair briefly. “Yes.”

“Did you at least warn Victor?”

“It didn’t occur to me to.”

John pulled Sherlock’s unoccupied stool away from the table and perched himself on it. “How furious was he?”

“Not an accurate description of his immediate reaction.”

“Flummoxed?”

“Followed by ‘disgruntled’.”

John laughed. “You look ridiculous.”

“He used the word ‘stupid’.”

“So, what’s the case?”

Sherlock looked John carefully over. “You should get some rest.”

“I’m fine. Tell me about the case.”

Sherlock turned back to glaring at his lab set. “Serial killer.”

“Your favourite. Wait.” John frowned. “What’s the M.O.?”

“Bleached blonde alphas.”

John gaped, a mix of incredulous and infuriated rapidly rising inside him. “You’re using yourself as bait?”

“And that was when Victor became furious,” Sherlock sighed.

“I wonder why. Please tell me you at least informed Greg of your incredibly idiotic actions?”

Sherlock pointedly stared at his microscope. “Once Victor—suggested I do so.”

“Christ. Ten days I’m gone.”

“I’m perfectly safe, John. Unlike previous victims, I am aware of the situation. I am hunting as much as being hunted.”

“Not helping,” John grumbled. “So what’s the problem?”

“All four victims were killed by severe chemical corrosion to the skull, but I have yet to find a reaction that sufficiently mimics the effects seen on the victims.”

“What have you been testing on?”

“Pigs of course.”

“Why don’t I smell it?”

Sherlock gave his table a scathing look. “After the first day, Victor banned me from performing that part of my experiments in the flat. The point of moving my lab equipment up here-”

“Burning flesh is a pervasive smell, Sherlock.”

“I’m aware.”

John shook his head, hiding a smile. “Back to the case. I think you’re looking at this wrong.”

Sherlock shot John a glare.

“Listen to me for a sec. Have you or Greg figured out a motive?”

“Aside from psychotic behaviour, no.”

“What about personal?”

“Four victims, all matching-”

“I know, but what if victim number one was personal? And then the psychotic behaviour stepped in for two-through-four.”

“That still doesn’t explain how-”

“If it’s not a chemical reaction.”

Sherlock looked sharply at John, though now with intrigue. “Of course! The corrosion has nothing to do with the bleach. Not directly that is. It says everything about his first victim.” Sherlock stripped his gloves off and grabbed John by the shoulders, planting a kiss on his forehead. “Brilliant.”

“You’re dying it back when this is over,” John called after Sherlock as the genius bolted down the stairs, already texting.

John closed up the room and went down to the flat. He dragged his bags into the bedroom and left them in front of the closet to deal with in the morning. It was all he could do to strip before collapsing into bed next to Victor.

“Hey.”

“Sorry, tried not to wake you.”

“S’fine.” Victor wrapped an arm around John’s middle and pulled him close. “You smell like bleach.”

“Was being Sherlock’s ‘conductor of light’.”

“He should’ve let you come to bed. After what you’ve been through-”

“He did, he told me to go to bed first. I insisted.”

Victor sighed. “If you say so.”

John grinned. “Glad you two managed while I was gone.”

“Aside from the hair incident.”

“You’re both in one piece.”

“Just for you.” Victor kissed John’s forehead. “You doing alright?”

“Yeah. I can fill you in tomorrow.” John yawned. “Sleep now.”

“Sleep now,” Victor murmured. He was back to sleep in seconds, and John was not far behind him.

 

Sherlock’s case lasted another few days, and John went along with him. Victor was less than pleased with the situation. When John pointed out that someone needed to have their idiot’s back, Victor muttered something incoherent and let it drop after that.

Of course, he picked it right back up again when John and Sherlock came home late Friday night an hour after catching their killer and Sherlock had a black eye, a split lip, and a bloody nose. “Christ!”

“You should see the other guy,” John chuckled, the adrenaline of the chase and ensuing fight still coursing through him.

Sherlock failed to stifle a giggle of his own, which only made Victor more pissed off.

“You two,” Victor fumed, unable to come up with any other words.

“Relax, Vic,” John said, doing his best to compose himself. “He’s gotten worse than this on cases.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Victor snapped.

John stepped away from Sherlock’s side and put his hands on Victor’s arms. “Hey, it’s part of the gig. I had his back, and Greg’s people were there in minutes.” That was a stretch; it had taken nearly fifteen minutes for the officers to show up, but John decided one half-truth was necessary for the moment.

Victor gestured unkindly to Sherlock. “It’s one thing when he gets himself into a mess, but dragging you along-”

John stepped back. “It’s my choice, Vic.”

“I know, but-”

“It’s okay for Sherlock to put himself in danger, but not me?”

“No! I don’t want either of you in danger, but this is what he does. Sherlock chose to do this for a living.”

“And you think it’s just a hobby of mine?” John crossed his arms.

“You have a career!”

“No, I had a career. In case you’ve forgotten, that’s over.” John pointed at his shoulder.

“You could have more, but instead you’re putting your whole life at risk to follow at Sherlock’s heels for kicks.”

“Is that what you think this is? Kicks?”

“It’s his drug, John. Don’t you see that?”

“It’s what he’s good at.”

“It doesn’t make it any less of an addiction.”

Behind John, Sherlock cleared his throat.

“What?” John snapped, not turning around.

To John’s shock, Sherlock said, “Victor’s right, at least about my addictive behaviour, and you are well aware of it, John.”

“That’s not even the point.”

“No, it’s not. Victor is concerned for your wellbeing, that’s the point.”

“I’m a big boy,” John sneered. “And I can’t believe you’re taking his side.”

“On the contrary, you know I enjoy and benefit from your presence during cases. And while Victor no doubt harbours concern for both of our safety every time we’re out on a case, this is also not the point.” Sherlock was irritatingly calm while he spoke.

John turned and glared at him. “What is the point then, oh genius one?”

“There is another factor that is contributing to this—disruption—in your normal behaviours, magnifying your emotions and-”

“Sherlock,” John spoke with a warning tone.

“You’re in heat.” When no one said anything, Sherlock continued, “You usually prepare yourself adequately and make a conscious effort to lessen stress factors in your life for the time preceding and the duration of your oestrus.”

“It’s only September,” Victor commented.

John shook his head, his shoulders relaxing. “Suppressants can mess things up a bit for a while after taking them. God, you’d think I’d know my own body well enough.”

Sherlock shrugged. “You’ve been amply distracted lately.”

“I’ll call into work,” Victor said.

John looked at the beta sharply. “No, you’ve already missed enough on my account. Your pristine record is kind of shot.”

Victor rubbed John’s shoulders and kissed his forehead. “I don’t mind. At least Monday and Tuesday. That’ll be the height, right?”

John nodded.

“I’ll go to Tesco,” Sherlock offered, earning amused looks from both beta and omega, which he blatantly ignored. “I suspect your preferences haven’t changed much in the last few years?”

“No,” John said, unable to stop from grinning. “Though, shit, I haven’t ordered new oestrus covers for the bed.”

“I’ll pick those up as well.”

“It’s kind of late. Go tomorrow.”

Victor nodded. “We can use the flat sheet from the old set until then.”

“You’ll have to go then,” Sherlock said, sounding rather frustrated.

“Why?”

John chuckled. “Because by morning he’ll be hard as diamond and smell as pungent as me.”

 

By Monday night, John had barely made use of his toys. Between Victor and Sherlock, he didn’t need them. It was the most satisfying heat he’d ever had. He became convinced, if only in his oestrus haze, that omegas weren’t meant to get through a heat with only one partner. Of course, by Monday night, even Sherlock’s knot wasn’t quite cutting it. He was too wet and his body too hard to sate.

“What if we both…” he vaguely heard Victor murmur.

“It would be incredibly tight, especially with my knot against your cock.”

“Would it hurt him?”

“Not if we take it slow enough; his body can handle quite a lot in this state. But I am concerned about it hurting you.”

“I hate to see him like this. It’s hard to believe this is natural.”

“I don’t recall it being so hard on him, but we only experienced one cycle together.”

“We’ve been through a couple, and it’s never been this bad. Side effects from the suppressants?”

“Most likely.”

“Sherlock, we need to do something to give him relief.”

“If I knot and it hurts you while we’re both in there, it’s going to be incredibly difficult for either of us to pull out, and we risk injuring John in doing so.”

“I know, but—look at him. Pheromones or not, I can’t stand seeing him like this. Goddamn it, what do we do?”

“We can go in increments. Fingers first.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Sherlock knelt upright on the bed, hoisting up John’s hips until he could penetrate him in that position. “Before I knot,” he said to Victor.

Victor slid two fingers easily in beside Sherlock’s cock. The alpha gave a couple thrusts and his knot quickly swelled.

“Please,” John whimpered.

“Go ahead,” Victor said. “I’m fine.”

Sherlock did not bother with a steady rhythm. He moved fast and hard, trying to give John relief as quickly and successfully as possible. There was nothing Victor could do but add pressure and friction with the presence of his fingers. John’s prick was too sensitive, and he would swat away any attempt to touch it.

John came screaming, his muscles clenching down on cock and fingers both with shocking strength.

Victor managed to slip his fingers out first, once Sherlock’s knot began to deflate. They lowered John back onto the bed, where he curled up as soon as Sherlock was out of him.

Sherlock sat back, bracing his hands on the mattress behind him.

“You alright?” Victor whispered.

“Fine. Believe me, sharing the burden with you has definitely proved beneficial. Though his heightened pheromones have not failed to affect me likewise.”

“I can tell,” Victor said, nodding down to Sherlock’s cock, which had refused to go completely flaccid over the last few rounds.

“Once we pass the crest, I’ll need a break.”

“That’s fine.” Victor kissed his cheek. “John and I have figured out a couple tricks to keep my poor lil’ beta cock from being completely useless.”

Sherlock smirked. “Your cock is anything but little or useless.”

“Compared to that monster you’ve got on you?” Victor smiled. He turned his attention back to John, who was still shivering in the foetal position. “I want to try it.”

“Vic.”

“I’ll manage. He needs something, Sherlock, something neither of us can give him solo.”

Sherlock sighed. “You’re right.”

“Don’t get to hear that very often.”

It only took a couple hours for John to start squirming again, to paw at his prick only to whine at the near painful sensations it caused him. Victor lay beside John and he and Sherlock gently rolled the omega over until he was back-to-torso on top of Victor and Victor slid into him with ease. Sherlock rolled on a new condom and positioned himself between both pairs of legs.

“Sh.” Victor pushed back John’s sweat-soaked hair. “We’re going to make you feel better, John.” He kissed John’s shoulder, and John momentarily stilled but for a shudder.

Sherlock pushed in over Victor’s cock. John moaned, nodding violently in place of his inability to form coherent thought. “Here it goes,” Sherlock muttered. He and Victor both held their breaths as Sherlock gave the couple preliminary thrusts needed to knot.

“Christ,” Victor breathed.

“I knew this was a bad idea.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m alright.” He wrapped his arms around John’s middle, John who was now wriggling and pleading for relief once again. “It’s not the most comfortable position I’ve been in, but it’s fine.”

“Victor-”

“Just fuck. I’m fine.”

Sherlock moved slower than John wanted him to. He fought against Victor’s arms as they tried to still him, wanting nothing more than to knock Sherlock on his back and ride his thick cock into the oblivion he so desperately needed. He’d never felt so full, but it wasn’t enough. He needed Sherlock to move.

“Go,” Victor urged Sherlock. “It’s better now. Give him what he needs.”

Somewhere in his mind, John silently thanked Victor. Sherlock began thrusting faster and deeper, and Victor groaned into the back of John’s neck. Then, with one particular thrust, one very deep thrust, the thrust that pushed Sherlock to climax, everything went wrong.

For a moment, the oestrus haze completely left John’s mind. Time froze, and he was granted a moment of clarity of what had just occurred inside him. Then panic set in, and he began screaming at Sherlock to get out of him.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Victor asked, trying to keep John from ripping himself off of the two.

“Hold him still. I need to pull out.”

“Sherlock-”

“HOLD HIM STILL.”

Victor obeyed, his heart pounding against John’s spine. Far too slowly, Sherlock managed to pull out of John. Victor immediately followed and rolled John onto the bed, pinning John’s shoulders to the mattress. “John. John, look at me. What’s wrong?”

“Let him go,” Sherlock snapped.

As soon as John found himself free, he bolted for the bathroom. He climbed into the tub and scrabbled with the detachable shower head. A minute later, Victor came in and took it from his trembling fingers. “Let me help,” he whispered.

John lay in the bottom of the tub as Victor washed him out as best he could with the shower head. John bit his lip to keep some sort of cap on his emotions. His mind was a little too clear for this stage in oestrus.

When they returned to the bedroom, John wrapped in his bathrobe, Sherlock was sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. He looked up as soon as the two walked in, guilt written deep in his eyes.

“Luckily,” Victor sighed, “the condom was the only thing that tore. He’s fine.”

“It was idiotic. We never should have-”

John shrugged off the bathrobe and climbed into Sherlock’s lap, curling up much like a child might. Tentatively, Sherlock put his arms around him. “Not your fault,” he murmured.

“It is my fault.”

“You were trying to make me feel better.”

“Sherlock,” Victor interrupted before the alpha could argue any further. “It was an accident. It happens. We’ll deal with ‘what if’ when John’s feeling up to it. Let’s just get some rest while we can.”

Sherlock and Victor lay on either side of John. He wanted his heat to be over and done with then and there, but, in a few hours, his body won out and he needed relief.

 

For the week following the end of John’s heat, all three of them were nothing but nerves. Of course, they all had their ways of showing it. Sherlock brooded so hard he had to be reminded that his hair needed dying, food was a must, and showers would be appreciated; Victor cleaned every surface of the flat, some more than once; and John went for walks, a lot of them. When the seven days were up, John came home from one walk with a shopping bag. Sherlock and Victor eyed him silently as he walked through to the toilet. When he re-emerged empty-handed, both of them tried to talk at once.

“Five minutes,” he said, cutting them both off. “I don’t even want to look at it for the next five minutes.” He sat on the sofa, where Victor joined him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Sherlock paced. John set his mobile on the coffee table, on which he had started a countdown. It was an incredibly slow and quick five minutes. “Both of you stay here.”

John closed the bathroom door behind him, sure that the beta and alpha would quietly lurk as near as they could get without alerting him. He stared at the piece of plastic on the edge of the sink for an immeasurable length of time before stepping toward it.


	17. Chapter 17

They didn’t tell many people before the 12-week ultrasound. Clara, Molly, Mike, Greg. It was Sherlock who insisted on telling Greg, since John insisted on still coming to cases this early on. Actually, he hadn’t so much as insisted on telling Greg as announced his intentions to John before waltzing into Greg’s office to explain the situation, as he put it.

Victor went with John to the ultrasound. “He’s my partner,” John stated firmly when asked if the father could be expected. When they were alone waiting for the doctor, John muttered on about it being the twenty-first century. Victor squeezed his hand, and John forced himself to calm down.

After a thorough exam, John and the baby were both given clean bills of health. John stared dumbly at his stomach. The word hadn’t come up often in conversations. Mostly they had said “the pregnancy”.

“Take your time,” the doctor said with a genial smile before leaving the room.

There had only been one discussion of possible abortion, in the days following after the home pregnancy test read positive. John had brought it up by asking, “What kind of life can we give a kid?”

“With three parents?” Victor had said smiling. “Not a bad one.”

“I’m serious. Sherlock’s off on cases sporadically, and half the time I’m with him. We haven’t got two full salaries between the three of us.” John stared at his stomach. “I shouldn’t even be having this.”

“John, if you want it, we’ll make it work. So you can’t go running off on cases with Sherlock for a few years. You’ll get maternity from work. Sherlock can start charging for some cases, take on the boring ones.”

Sherlock had grunted.

“Hey,” Victor had snapped, glaring at Sherlock. “If John wants to keep it, you can suffer a little boredom to help out.”

“We don’t have the room,” John had muttered.

“We can talk to Mrs. Hudson about taking the basement flat for Sherlock’s lab. Or he doesn’t have a lab at home.” Victor had taken both John’s hands in his. “John, don’t make up excuses. If you want to keep it, we can make it work, the three of us together. If you don’t want to keep it, make sure it’s for the right reasons.”

The following week, John told them he was keeping it. Still no one had used the word “baby”.

Now, though, they had an ultrasound. When Sherlock came back from Bart’s late that night, he stared at the print-out for a long time. The next day, he began boxing up his lab equipment upstairs. The week after the upstairs room had been emptied, Sherlock was nose-deep in prenatal care research. John and Victor regularly passed grins across the table while Sherlock read article after article and scoured countless message boards.

John took a few days to visit his mum and Harry. Harry, who was actually sober, had a job, and was keeping the house in decent shape while she continued to live with their mum. They were both excited over the new, though their mum was dramatically more so. They only got a break from her cooing when she went off to the other room to call everyone she knew.

“So, it’s Sherlock’s?” Of course, Harry knew it was Sherlock’s as that had been one of the first questions posed by their mother. “What happened with Victor?”

“Nothing. He’s still in the picture.”

Harry frowned. “Does Sherlock know?”

John smiled. “Considering the three of us share a bed? Yeah, I think he’s noticed.”

“Oh. Oh! The three of you…”

“Yup.”

“Oh.” Harry gnawed at her bottom lip.

“I’m happy, Harry. We all are.”

“I guess that’s what matters.”

John shook his head and asked her about her life. She seemed relieved for the change in topic, if not with the new topic itself.

 

After term ended, all three of them went to the Trevors’ for Christmas. John was especially looking forward to seeing Gloria. She was apparently anticipating this as she unloaded her twenty-month-old son onto his uncle—or uncles as Gloria stated, referring to Victor and Sherlock both without so much as a blink—and took John by the arm, dragging him away from the masses.

They sat in the conservatory on a cushioned wicker bench looking out at the garden. Gloria still had John’s arm through hers. “Three months is it then?”

“Yup.”

“I take it you boys didn’t plan it?”

“Nope.” After a moment, John smiled. “But I’ve never been good at planning my life.”

“You’ll have to be more careful about it now.”

“Oh, I know. I don’t think it would work if it was just me and Sherlock, but with Victor—he adds a lot of stability.”

Gloria patted John’s hand. “I wanted to talk about that.”

John gave her a curious look. It had long been established that Gloria had no moral qualms or personal distaste about her brother being in a relationship with two people at the same time. She was one of the few who didn’t so much as wince when they found out. Even most of their close friends had shown some kind of reaction, but Gloria had always taken it in stride and accepted it.

“You and Victor need to get married.”

“Huh?”

“For legal purposes. Sherlock will be able to have partial custody because of genetics, but if you have the baby outside wedlock, Victor’s going to have to jump through a lot of hoops to be the adoptive father and have any legal say, god forbid anything happen to you.”

John frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“If you two are legally married when you give birth, all Vic has to do is sign a piece of paper. Sherlock will need to go through a few legal steps, but nothing compared to what Victor would.”

“The system’s really fucked when it comes to betas, you know that?”

Gloria sighed. “Don’t I ever. Look, I’m going to be in London the week after New Year’s. Sherlock and I can be the witnesses, and no one’s the wiser.”

John picked up Gloria’s hand and kissed the back of it. “You’re something wonderful, Gloria.”

“I know.” She grinned and kissed John’s cheek. “Come on, before we’re missed.”

John rolled his eyes. “I’ve just announced I’m three-months pregnant. I think I’m missed.”

Gloria laughed and dragged him back to the family.

 

With Gloria’s help, they got the paperwork sorted with relative ease. When all was said and done, Sherlock and Victor would both share in custody of the child. Starting around February, Sherlock began micromanaging John’s life. It was subtle at first—requesting certain items from the shopping list, suggesting John get some rest at earlier hours in the evening—but the subtlety was short-lived. John came home from work one day to discover Sherlock had mapped out an entire schedule for him. Victor found them still quarrelling about it an hour later. It ended with Sherlock storming out of the flat.

“At least he cares,” Victor offered.

When Sherlock came home an hour later, it was with takeaway from John’s favourite curry place. At John and Victor’s questioning looks, Sherlock muttered something about moderation and hung up his coat.

Things gradually settled out. John and Victor were able to wrangle Sherlock into serious conversations about making scheduled commitments, and keeping them no matter how interesting a murder came up. Sherlock always scowled at the implications, but made no verbal argument.

John’s boss was disappointed to hear he wouldn’t be able to take on a fulltime position the following year. John didn’t point out he’d never said he would before the pregnancy. As word spread, he sporadically received visitors during his offices hours from students and colleagues to congratulate him. Rachael was one of the first. They spent almost an hour chatting, though it was more about Rachael’s new omega boyfriend than John’s baby.

There were a few faces John never expected to show up at his office door, but none so much as the one that appeared one afternoon near the end of March. It had been over fifteen years. What was left of his hair had gone completely grey, his glasses had thickened, his skin wrinkled. He used a cane now, with clear signs his knee had finally given out. It took John a moment to properly register that he was there before offering him a seat and getting up to greet him properly.

“Mr. Morstan-”

“Please, John. Arthur will do.”

“Arthur. What are you doing- I mean, it’s good to see you.”

Arthur smiled and patted the second armchair. Once John sat, the older man looked him over. “You look well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Your mother called. I don’t think she quite rightly knew who she had called. I imagine she was dialling every number in her address book.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I must say, it was good to hear about you after so long.”

John shook his head. “I- I should have stayed in touch.”

“No one blames you for not. Quite understandable.”

“Still-”

“None of that, my boy. I haven’t come all this way to make accusations or ask questions.”

John grimaced. “If you don’t mind my asking, sir, then why did you come?”

“Like I said, it was good to hear about you. And I can say now that it’s done me good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, sir.” And it was, in a strange way that John didn’t quite understand and doubted he ever would. But there was something else, something John knew in the back of his mind simply from looking at the man. He bit his lip before asking, “Sir, are you dying?”

“I see that degree of yours isn’t just for show.” Arthur smiled. “I am.” He tapped his head with a knuckle. “I could have a few months or a few years, but I’ve decided not to waste time on being hopeful. I’m moving to India next month.”

“You have family there?”

“Kamala’s family, which is—as they have insisted on many occasions past and present—my family. A sister, a handful of cousins, and their children and so on. As soon as I told them, they wouldn’t hear of me spending my days alone in the cold, grey English countryside.” The old man chuckled.

John nodded. He couldn’t think of what else to say. There wasn’t anything else to say, though there was still plenty that passed between them in the quiet seconds that ticked by. In a few minutes, they had hugged and Mr. Morstan had walked out of his office. John stared at the empty chair for a long while.


	18. Epilogue

Sherlock had John’s overnight bag packed a month before the due date. John didn’t bother making a fuss about it and quietly repacked it a few days before he was scheduled to go in. Sherlock also refused to take any cases in the last few weeks, snapping at Greg when he came round in late May.

They had agreed Sherlock would not be allowed in the delivery room, for fear that he would start criticising the medical team. Victor stood at John’s side, holding his hand while they numbed half of John’s body and began the c-section. 

“Don’t you want to watch?” John murmured teasingly.

“I can’t stand some of Sherlock’s experiments.”

John smiled. “Think he’s pacing?”

“Almost definitely. He’ll never admit it, though.”

“Should’ve asked Clara to come and videotape him.”

Victor chuckled. “We should probably ease up on him.”

“Maybe a little.” Their quiet talk was interrupted by the cries of the newborn baby. John hopelessly tried to see over the screen.

“Congratulations, Dr. Watson. It’s an alpha girl.”

“A girl?” John looked at Victor, his vision not quite clear. “She’s a she?”

Victor laughed and kissed his forehead. “She’s a she.”

 

Once John was settled in the recovery room, he was left alone for a little while by his nurse and doctor. He, Victor, and Sherlock finally had a chance to be alone together, with the addition of the small girl at John’s breast.

“She needs a name,” Victor murmured. “Mary?”

John shook his head. “I couldn’t manage that. But thank you.”

“Aimee,” Sherlock said.

John mused over it for a moment. “Aimee. Any particular reason?”

“It means ‘beloved’.” Sherlock looked between John and Victor. “I thought it might be fitting, considering her extra parentage.”

Victor smiled. He put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and the other on John’s arm. “Definitely seems fitting.”

“Aimee.” John smiled down at the dozing infant. “Welcome to the world, Aimee Watson. You’re going to have one strange family, but I promise you will always know love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this start to finish. I hope you enjoyed it! ♥
> 
> (I might be adding another section at some point with notes about the biology/anatomy and social issues of this world. If there's enough of a request for it?)


	19. notes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are the notes, later than promised but here nevertheless!
> 
> Again, thank you to everyone who's read this story and any of my other works. I greatly appreciate it!

M = male  
F = female  
A = alpha  
B = beta  
O = omega  
Ex. MB = male beta; FA = female alpha; O = MO and/or FO

I’m going to start with the social constructs for those who don’t care to read the nitty gritty anatomy things. Also, these are the parameters for places like the UK; there’s a lot of controversy and issues in many other places.

The “ideal” coupling is an alpha with an omega; these are seen as the only viable (re. reproducing) pairs. Betas have historically been seen as of lesser worth than either alphas or omegas, but omegas, historically, were more or less ways for the alphas to produce progeny. So while omegas had more worth, it was as a commodity, and betas could have higher social ranking, to an extent. There’s also a significantly smaller chance of birthing a beta than either an omega or an alpha.

In modern times, omegas and betas have both faced social issues. For omegas, it was to be seen as more than a pair of ovaries and a womb; they wanted jobs, to be self-sufficient, etc. For betas, it was more about being seen as worthy caregivers—teachers, nannies, and, eventually, parents. (Historically, there were unusual instances of female betas being given the roles of nannies, but it was extremely rare and considered of questionable morals.)

As touched on briefly in the story, betas still face a lot of red tape when it comes to becoming parents. While it’s possible, there are a lot more hoops for them to jump through than omegas or alphas. Alphas face a few difficulties as well, since omegas are seen as the primary and penultimate caregiver, if only one can be chosen, in this day and age; but it’s still easier for alphas than betas, since alphas are considered as having a more “natural” parenting drive.

“Queer” couples are any couples whose insides aren’t compatible (e.g. you have ovaries, I have testes, doesn’t matter if they work). The anatomy section will make this clearer, but for those who don’t read that here are the taboo couplings: A/A, O/O, A/MB, MB/MB, FB/FB, FB/O. There’s been less concern about what betas do among themselves, so while MB/MB and FB/FB are still disagreeable, people get less up in arms about it. A/A are the most deplorable because of the (mis)conception that they’re both supposed to be strong dominant and yet one of them is submitting himself “like a weak omega”. O/O are seen as confused and in need of guidance, especially if one is or both are MO.

While “queerness” is still looked down at by many people, even in places like the UK, there has been a lot of progress. They can’t marry yet, but, with a LOT of paperwork and red tape and patience, “queer” couples can adopt as co-guardians.

Hate crimes can and often are severely punished, but the government is otherwise dragging their feet on the equal rights front for these couples.

Polyamory is a mixed bag. Some people think it’s alright for an alpha to have more than one omega, but this is the only acceptable setup if people agree with it at all, and a lot of people don’t at all. No one can have more than one legal spouse, though there are some religious sects that condone polygamy and will perform ceremonies (though they aren’t legally binding). But, again, rarely if ever done for any groups that aren’t alpha-omega-omega…

Trans* issues are about 15-20 years behind where they are for us. Being trans* can be referential to the F/M and/or the A/B/O of one’s biology v. identity.

 

Now for the anatomy!

Biological sex exists in six forms: MO, FO, FB, MB, MA, FA

First off, it should be noted that not all betas are truly barren. While it is extremely rare, there have been cases where a beta conceived/impregnated. However, most monogamous partners where at least one is a beta do not use condoms.

Omegas and FB have female internal reproductive organs. For omega males, the entrance to the vaginal canal is attached to and opens into the colon. The opening is generally a few centimetres above where you would find the prostate in an alpha or MB. MO typically produce far more natural lubricant (in and out of oestrus) than FO, not only for necessary extra lubrication but also to flush the vaginal canal. Outside of oestrus, the majority of their lube production occurs after orgasm for this reason. MO do not have testes, as those are homologous to ovaries, which they need for reproduction. As a result, they do not emit any fluids from their penis when they orgasm. In fact, with regard to sex, an MO’s penis is an incredibly large clitoris (these two are also homologous). MO will develop breasts when preparing to give birth; they will usually reduce to their original “male” appearance after the first and second child.

FO and FB anatomy is your basic female on the inside, female on the outside. FB can some time experience pseudo-oestrus, but more often they will menstruate rarely, weakly, and erratically. Omega oestrus begins between 14 and 16 years old and occurs every 4-6 weeks for the first five years. For the first 2-3 years, oestrus only lasts a few days and is not as intense as it is in an omega’s late teens to mid-twenties. After the age of 20 or so, cycles gradually grow further apart. The rate at which they do so varies from individual to individual. As the time between cycles nears twenty-four months, omegas become increasingly less likely to conceive. This can occur anywhere from an omega’s late forties to late fifties. After this point, it is extremely unlikely that an omega will get pregnant, even if there is unprotected sex with an alpha during oestrus.

Alphas and MB have male internal reproductive organs. MB do not have knots. FA will often have an underdeveloped womb and vaginal canal, and almost all of them will have a vaginal opening. However, access to the vaginal opening is extremely difficult as a FA’s testes are located on either side, where one would find a FB or FO’s labia, and conceal the vaginal opening. The FA’s testes are not “dropped’ as low as a MA’s or MB’s. The FA’s penis is sheathed; when not urinating or sexually aroused, it remains concealed in a “sheath” of flesh overlaying the pubic symphysis (hard cartilage bit above your vulva/penis). As a result, FA penises have less mobility than MA penises, but the average FA penis is longer when fully erect than the average MA’s. And yes, FA do have a prostate—same place as the MA and MB prostate. FA also have breasts, and they’re as variable in size as FB or FO breasts.


End file.
